STRENGTH  OF  THE  HILLS 


A  Sto.ry  of  Modern 
American    Life*  ~'  ^ 


THE     STRENGTH     OF     THE 
HILLS  "  IS  THE  NINTH  OF  TWELVE 
AMERICAN    NOVELS   TO    BE    PUBLISHED    BY 
HARPER&  BROTHERS  DURING  igOI,  WRITTEN 
FOR   THE   MOST    PART    BY   NEW   AMERICAN 
WRITERS,    AND   DEALING  WITH    DIFFERENT 
PHASES  OP   CONTEMPORARY  AMERICAN  LIFE. 
ALREADY  PUBLISHED 

"  EASTOVER  COURT  HOUSE."  By  HENRY 
BURNHAM  BOONE  and  KENNETH  BROWN. 

"THE  SENTIMENTALISTS."  By  ARTHUR 
STANWOOD  PIER. 

"  MARTIN    BROOK."     By  MORGAN  BATHS. 

"A  VICTIM  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES."  By 
GERALDINE  ANTHONY. 

'•DAYS    LIKE    THESE."     By    EDWARD  W. 

TOWNSEND. 

"  WESTERFELT."     By  WILL  N.  HARBKN. 
"THE   MANAGER  OF  THE  B  &  A."     By 

VAUGHAN  KESTER. 
"  THE    SUPREME     SURRENDER."      By 

A.  MAURICE  Low. 


THE    STRENGTH 
OF    THE    HILLS 


JRotoel 


By 

Florence   Wilkinson 


New  York  and   London 

Harper  &  Brothers   Publishers 
1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by  HARPBR  &  BKOTHBRS 
All  rights  rturvtd. 


Contents 


ffioofc  fl 

CHAR  PAGE 

I.  Joe  HARTLE'S  JOB 1 

II.  THE  DUEL 15 

III.  AN  INITIAL  AND  A  NAME 27 

IV.  SARAROSE ......  34 

V.  A  SERMON  AND  A  DANCE 51 

VI.  STORM  AND  CLEARING 65 

VII.  AT  THE  ELK  MOUNTAIN  CHURCH 91 

VIII.  CAMP  BOHEMIA 104 

IX.  A  CUP  OF  TEA Ill 

X.  IN  THE  STUDIO 123 

XI.  THE  RASPBERRY  GATHERERS 130 

XII.  AT  LOST  INN 141 

XIII.  UP  STREAM 156 

XIV.  WITCHHOPPLE  BROOK 166 

XV.  READING  CHARACTERS 172 

XVI.  AN  INTERRUPTION 184 

XVII.  DOWN  STREAM 188 

XVIII.  THE  SOCIAL  AT  Si's 201 

XIX.  Music  AND  GAMES 216 

XX.  THE  GOWN 230 

XXI.    YSOBEL    AND   RlCHARD 240 

XXII.  A  RAINY  MORNING    ...                       ....  249 

XXIII.  A  THANKLESS  TASK 261 

XXIV.  To  HAVE  AND  To  HOLD 267 

iii 


Contents 

.113  oo  h   1111 

CHAP.  PACK 

XXV.  BODIES  AND  SOULS 273 

XXVI.  THE  BURIED  BROOK 281 

XXVII.  THE  RHINEGOLD 289 

XXVIII.  THE  TRIBUNAL 303 

XXIX.  ENOCH  THINKS 313 

XXX.  THE  FRIGHTFUL  THOUGHT 318 

XXXI.  ALISON'S  ADVICE 329 

XXXII.  THE  IMPOSSIBLE  PUNCH-BOWL 336 

XXXIII.  THE  DREAM  TRAIL 341 

XXXIV.  THE  ROAD  TO  ROME 346 

XXXV.  A  REPENTING  AND  A  TEMPTATION    ....  353 

XXXVI.  THE  PYROLA  FLOWERS 365 

XXXVII.  THE  FIREBRAND 370 

XXXVIII.  FIGHT  FIRE  ! 378 

XXXIX.  THY  GARDENS  AND  THY  GALLANT  WALKS    .  386 

XL.  THE  NAKED  SOUL 391 

XLI.  HITTING  THE  TRAIL  395 


Boofe  U 


\ 


The  Strength  of  the   Hills 

CHAPTER  I 


THREE  o'clock  in  the  morning,  January,  five  feet 
of  snow  in  the  woods,  a  thick  dust  of  it  whirling 
through  the  air,  and  the  thermometer  at  zero,  are  not 
trifles  to  be  contended  with.  The  last  of  the  skid- 
ders  left  Hartleys  Camp  and  ploughed  their  way  up 
a  go-back  road  to  the  skidway  where  the  morning's 
job  was  to  begin.  On  either  side  of  the  hollowed 
footprints  they  strode  in,  the  snow  was  caked  like 
whipped  icing.  The  unsteady  swing  of  their  lan- 
terns' light  made  the  darkness  blacker  behind  them. 

"  Blows  like  the  deuce,  eh,  Enoch  ?"  said  Gene 
Lawless  to  the  plunking  shadow  behind  him. 

"  You  tacked  the  wrong  handle  onto  me  this  time," 
said  the  soft,  toothless  voice  of  Eli  Barhite. 

"  My  soul,  you  be  Eli,  be  you?  I  thought  by  the 
gallumph  of  you  through  that  there  snow-drift  you 
was  Enoch  Holme.  Going  up  mornings  and  coming 
back  nights  he's  the  first  to  step  off  into  the  snow." 

"  His  mind  is  sot  on  other  things,"  remarked  Eli, 
placatorily. 

A  1 


The  Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  You're  right,  all  right.  If  he  hadn't  'a'  been  so 
crazy  sot  on  books,  he  might  'a'  been  boss  of  this  job 
instid  of  Joe  Hartle." 

"  And  a  durned  sight  better  boss  than  Joe,  for 
with  all  his  book-1'arnin'  Enoch's  got  horse-sense  to 
beat  the  band,  and  he's  as  good  as  his  word  any  day. 
His  promises  ain't  writ  on  no  chunk  of  ice,  like 
Hartle's  be."  For  mild-mannered,  reticent  Eli  this 
was  an  unusual  burst  of  opinion. 

"  The  trouble  with  Hartle,  he's  so  deuced  big- 
headed  when  he's  got  the  liquor  in  him.  There's 
more  smuggling  of  liquor  into  this  camp  than  you 
knows  on,  Eli  Barhite." 

Gene,  with  his  narrow,  dark  face  tipped  by  gray 
chin  whiskers,  his  invective  tone  and  air  of  con- 
viction on  every  subject,  was  directly  opposed  to 
wide  -  cheeked  Eli,  who  deferred  to  every  one  in 
camp.  Nevertheless,  the  two  were  boon  companions. 

Gene  continued : 

"  I  kin  tell  you  jest  one  thing,  Eli,  if  Colonel  Hoi- 
lister  knew  the  goings-on  in  this  here  tract  of  his'n, 
he'd  hev  Joe  Hartle  out  of  it,  double-quick  time." 

As  a  seer  of  other  men's  minds,  and  of  their  acts 
under  given  circumstances  non-existent,  no  one  sur- 
passed Gene  Lawless. 

"  What  d'ye  think  of  these  hyar  log-roads  he's 
blazed  fer  us?"  ventured  Eli. 

"What  do  I  think?"  Gene's  tone  implied  that 
the  very  question  was  an  insult.  "  Why,  it  be  the 
gol  darndest  log  -  road  I  ever  seen.  Hartle  'ain't 
sense  enough  to  run  a  sprinkler.  They  hez  to  keep 
half  the  boys  digging  sand  for  the  hills,  and  the  other 
shovelling  snow  on  the  hollers,  not  to  mention  onct 
them  two  horses  killt  by  the  drive-holes." 

2 


Joe   Hartle's  Job 

"  It's  a  purty  stiff  grade,  Blue  Mountain,"  said 
Eli.  "  I  'ain't  no  notion  of  bein'  a  teamster  when 
I  see  how  beat  out  the  boys  be.  Gosh,  they  don't  get 
to  supper  till  long  after  dark.  Eight  trips  is  too 
much.  Thet's  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  It  be  murder,"  said  Lawless,  savagely,  "  so  be 
the  Blue  Mountain  road.  If  we  don't  finish  up  with 
more  horses,  and  men  too,  killt  from  Hartle's  Camp, 
then  my  name's  not  Gene  Lawless." 

The  men  walked  in  silence  for  some  time,  then  Eli 
asked : 

"  Gene,  did  you  take  notice  of  that  new  feller 
Joe  hired  last  night  ?" 

"  Nothing  particular.  Noticed  he  spoke  kinder 
easy." 

"  He  didn't  hev  our  ways,  nohow.  He  spoke  his 
words  smooth-like." 

"  Maybe  he  come  from  Canady." 

"  He  ain't  no  Canuck,  neither.  But  he  wanted  a 
job  bad.  Wai,  he's  got  it.  He  won't  stick  to  it  long, 
that's  my  idee.  I  never  seen  the  likes  of  his  hands, 
Gene.  His  nails  were  all  drawed  to  a  point  jest  as 
nice,  and  were  shiny  like  looking-glass." 

"  Likely  enough,"  replied  Lawless,  "  he's  one  of 
these  here  tramps  that  comes  from  the  city.  They 
think  they  can  make  big  money  up  here,  or  else 
they've  got  their  reasons  for  skipping  out  to  home. 
He  hez  his  reasons,  you  kin  bet,  for  coming  into  the 
woods." 

Gene  and  Eli  were  still  gossiping  about  the  new 
hand  when  they  arrived  at  the  skidway  where  Enoch 
Holme  stood.  He  was  a  master  at  piling  the  logs 
on  the  bolsters  with  accuracy  of  eye  and  skill  of 
judgment.  His  loads  were  always  properly  balanced, 

3 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

and  carried  more  feet  of  timber  than  any  one  else's 
at  Hartle's. 

Torches  were  stuck  in  the  snow,  casting  a  red 
light  here  and  there  over  the  whipped  drifts  of  snow 
that  caked  on  the  logs  and  overhung  the  roadway. 
Enoch  Holme,  in  his  blue  and  red  woollen  stockings 
pulled  over  corduroy  breeches,  stood  with  his  cant- 
hook  prodding  here  and  lifting  there,  as  a  huge  stick 
of  spruce  was  started  on  the  skids.  He  was  a  man 
of  uncommon  size,  with  the  well-set  head  and  square 
military  bearing  that  many  lumbermen  have,  and 
his  clothes,  moulded  to  him  in  satisfactory  wrinkles 
by  long  wear  and  service,  had  a  becoming  air  of  good- 
fellowship.  He  was  the  only  man  on  the  crew  who 
wore  a  beard,  mustaches  being  the  approved  fashion 
at  the  camp.  Enoch's  tawny  beard  and  head  of  bushy 
hair  were  a  popular  subject  of  merriment  in  the 
shanty  songs  sung  at  night  in  the  "  dog  room  "  around 
the  crackling  stove: 

"  The  boss  of  the  skidders  is  Enoch  Holme, 

And  a  damn  good  skidder  he; 
With  hair  like  a  pony's  and  beard  like  a  broom, 

But  he  never  goes  off  on  a  spree. 
He's  preaching  his  spree. 

Go  to  hell,  Enoch  Holme, 
You're  a  damn  sight  too  pious  for  me." 

Next  to  Enoch  stood  the  stranger,  a  young  man  of 
muscular  build,  in  the  regulation  woodsman's  clothes. 
His  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pockets  and  his  wool- 
len cap,  well  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  shaded  a 
face  unlike  the  rough  backwoods  type.  Close-shaven 
and  tanned  by  out-door  exposure,  the  features  reveal- 

4 


Joe    Hartle's  Job 

ed  a  fineness  of  line  that  smacked  almost  of  effemi- 
nacy. A  deep  dent  dimpled  the  shapely  chin. 

"  Now,  then,  Azzy,  here  she  comes,"  shouted 
Enoch,  as  the  huge  stick  rolled  across  the  sled. 

Azzy  Holme,  a  slim,  tall  boy  with  glittering  blue 
eyes  in  a  brown  face,  swung  out  his  peavey,  and  the 
log  took  its  place. 

"  Give  it  me,"  said  the  stranger,  taking  the  pole 
from  Azzy's  hand  to  assist  with  the  next  log. 

He  handled  the  peavey  effectively,  though  in  the 
manner  of  one  not  entirely  used  to  it.  His  quick- 
ness and  strength  called  forth  a  word  from  Enoch, 
who  added: 

"  You're  not  used  to  the  business,  are  you  ?" 

"  I've  been  out  of  it  for  a  time,"  answered  the 
young  man,  "  but  it  won't  take  me  long  to  get 
hold."  He  flashed  a  bright  smile  upon  Enoch,  and 
in  the  lantern-light  Enoch  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
dimple  in  his  chin  and  how  it  quivered  when  he 
smiled,  and  took  an  unreasoning  dislike  to  him 
forthwith.  Nevertheless,  he  admitted  to  himself 
that  the  young  man  worked  with  vim  and  intel- 
ligence. The  other  men  looked  upon  him  with  sus- 
picion because  of  his  "  smooth-spoken  ways."  Hang- 
ers-on and  tramps  of  a  miscellaneous  description  at 
these  lumber  camps  were  not  so  unusual  that  this 
particular  fellow  aroused  any  extraordinary  curi- 
osity. 

As  the  men  completed  the  load,  Azzy  stepped  to 
the  gray  horse's  head,  stroking  the  long  forehead 
and  velvety,  trembling  nose. 

"  How's  Judy  this  morning  ?"  asked  Enoch. 

"  She  was  pretty  peaked  after  the  last  trip  yester- 
day. We  didn't  get  in  till  half-past  eight,  but  I 

5 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

rubbed  her  down  good  and  she's  first-rate  this  morn- 
ing, bean't  you,  Judy  ?" 

Judy  turned  a  liquid  eye  on  the  speaker,  and 
rubbed  an  appreciative  nose  against  his  cheek. 

The  men  grappled  the  chains  around  the  completed 
load,  and  Enoch  took  a  last  look  to  see  that  it  was 
well  balanced  and  securely  bound.  The  grade  was 
steep  and  slippery,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  four 
o'clock  it  was  full  of  peril. 

"  Has  Davy's  gang  shovelled  this  morning  ?"  he 
inquired  of  Azzy. 

"  They  were  melting  out  the  pit  when  I  come  by 
the  pine-tree,  and  down  that  second  gully  they've 
spread  a  load  of  hay." 

"  Off  you  go,  then." 

Enoch  plunged  heartily  into  the  loading  for  the 
next  team,  when  a  strident  voice  called,  coming  out 
of  the  darkness  towards  the  horses'  heads: 

"  You  hain't  callin'  that  a  load  ?  By  G — ,  if  you 
fellows  can't  put  more  sticks  than  that  on  a  sled, 
first  trip,  good  roadin',  and  early  in  the  morning,  I 
want  to  know  why." 

Azzy  stopped  his  horses,  and  the  voice  went  on,  as 
the  man  emerged  from  the  dark  into  the  fitful  orange 
light  about  the  skidway.  He  swung  his  swivelled 
torch  savagely,  peering  by  turn  into  the  faces  of 
the  assembled  crew. 

"  Enoch,  you're  too  bashful  with  the  boys.  Jolly 
them  up,  and  they'll  draw  fer  you.  Swear  at  'em, 
and  they'll  work  better." 

Joe  Hartle,  the  boss,  laughed  leeringly,  adding : 

"  Or  exhort  'em,  if  that  be  more  in  your  line." 

"  Pretty  full,"  muttered  one  of  the  men,  signifi- 
cantly, as  Hartle's  dislocated  laugh  sounded. 

6 


Joe   Hartleys  Job 

"  Go  ahead,  Azzy,"  said  Enoch,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  boy,  perched  like  a  grasshopper  on  the  top  of 
the  tall  load,  whistled  to  his  team. 

"  You  drive  them  horses  one  step  out  of  their 
tracks,  and  I'll  kill  you,"  cried  Joe,  savagely.  "Who's 
boss  here,  you  or  me,  Enoch  Holme  ?  Load  up  that 
sled,  boys.  You  could  carry  them  there  sticks  on  your 
backs.  Damn  vou,  d'ye  think  I've  took  this  here  job 
for  fun?" 

The  word  of  the  boss  went,  for  discipline  at  the 
camp  was  military,  and  who  dared  disobey  risked  a 
discharge.  Wages  were  high  that  winter,  and  the 
job  a  long  one,  so  the  men  who  had  gone  in  for 
Hartle  were  unwilling  to  jeopardize  their  job.  Har- 
tle  held  a  contract  from  Hollister  &  Hollister  to  cut 
and  haul  two  hundred  thousand  feet  of  timber.  It 
had  been  a  close  shave  between  him  and  Enoch 
Holme  as  to  who  secured  the  contract,  for  both  men 
were  well  known  to  the  Hollister  firm  as  experienced 
lumbermen. 

The  boys,  in  sullen  silence,  commenced  loading 
more  logs  on  the  sled  under  Hartle's  direction,  while 
Enoch  stood  back,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  stern, 
hard-set  face  changing  expression  as  varying  resolves 
crossed  it.  Now  it  was  to  knock  down  the  drunken 
blusterer,  then  to  throw  up  his  job  entirely  and  go 
out  of  the  woods,  again  to  keep  his  peace  and  put  up 
with  the  insolent  interference  for  policy's  sake.  The 
world,  as  Emerson  says,  is  a  mush  of  concessions,  and 
a  great  deal  depended  on  Enoch's  earnings,  the  sup- 
port of  an  old  father  and  an  idolized  sister,  as  well 
as  an  ambitious  future  he  had  planned  for  himself, 
Upon  the  decision  of  a  minute  hangs  the  destiny  of 
a  lifetime.  Enoch  made  and  unmade  his  lifetime 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

several  times  in  as  many  minutes,  and  then,  with 
an  expressive  jerk  of  his  great  shoulders,  a  jerk  that 
said,  "  We  will  make  the  best  of  it,"  he  turned 
towards  his  crew  and  the  skidway. 

"  What  are  ye  dawdling  for  ?"  shouted  Joe  to 
Azzy.  "  If  you  wants  a  bigger  load  you  can  have  it, 
and  to  hell  with  you !" 

"  Kisky  business,"  blurted  out  Enoch,  "  sending 
that  load  off  with  a  third  more  logs  than  he  ought 
to  haul  down  a  mountain  road  that  doesn't  allow  for 
braking." 

"  G'long  with  him  yourself,"  Hung  back  Hartle. 
"  We  don't  need  you  here ;  do  we,  boys  ?" 

He  broke  out  into  song  and  laughter  with  the 
rapid  change  of  mood  of  a  tipsy  man: 

"  Go  to  hell,  Enoch  Holme, 
You're  a  damn  sight  too  pious  for  me." 

Enoch  took  a  torch  and  ran  ahead  of  the  team, 
swinging  up  the  blazing  light  before  their  careful 
feet  and  intent,  wrinkled  foreheads. 

To  all  of  this  interchange  of  abuse  and  remon- 
strance the  young  stranger,  his  hands  again  plunged 
into  his  pockets,  had  been  an  indifferent  spectator. 
His  smiling  brown  eyes  wandered  from  speaker  to 
speaker,  and  then  he  whistled  to  himself  a  little 
air.  Joe  turned  upon  him  with  an  oath: 

"  Stop  your  mouth  and  get  to  work.  I  didn't 
hire  you  to  set  up  no  tunes  for  us." 

The  young  man  still  smiled,  but  ceased  whistling. 

"  What's  my  work,  boss  2" 

"  '  What's  my  work,  boss  ?'  "  whined  Hartle,  in 
derisive  imitation  of  the  easy  tone.  "  Didn't  I  tell 
you  last  night  ?" 

8 


Joe    Hartleys   Job 

"  You  did  not,  confound  you !"  roared  the  young 
man,  his  face  flushing  with  anger. 

"  Take  that,  then,  for  your  answer !"  roared  back 
Hartle,  lifting  a  threatening  arm  as  if  to  knock  down 
the  stranger.  But  his  antagonist's  reply  came  quick- 
er than  speech,  and  Joe  Hartle  rolled  ignominiously 
in  the  snow,  head  first  in  a  huge  snow-drift.  The 
loud  laughter  of  the  men  showed  plainly  where  sym- 
pathy lay,  and  from  that  moment  the  young  man 
was  firmly  established  in  their  favor. 

Eli  turned  to  him  with  explanatory  advice. 

"  Follow  after  that  Enoch.  He'll  show  you  your 
job.  He's  the  boss  skidder." 

Hartle  was  still  struggling  in  the  snow-drift,  and 
the  other  men  added  their  voices : 

"  Go  on  with  ye,  man.  Joc'll  forgit  all  abaout 
this  when  he  comes  to  hisself." 

But  the  stranger  stood  his  ground. 

"  What  name  do  ye  go  by  ?"  asked  Eli,  respectfully. 

"  Dick,"  answered  the  young  man,  shortly. 

By  this  time  Hartle  had  regained  his  feet  and, 
strange  to  say,  his  temper  as  well. 

"  There's  a  man  fer  ye,  boys !"  he  cried.  "  He's 
got  an  arm.  We'll  have  a  round  in  the  dog-room  tin's 
evening,  Dick.  You  fools  "  — to  the  men  that  stood 
gaping  at  this  sudden  change  of  spirit — "  get  about 
your  business.  You,  Dick  "  —in  a  more  oily  voice — 
"  go  down  the  road  there  after  that  feller  Holme, 
and  do  what  he  tells  ye." 

Dick  turned  on  his  heel  and  hurried  down  the 
log-road  between  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  There 
were  four  or  five  miles  of  steep  mountain  descent, 
winding  through  the  growth  of  evergreen  and  hard- 
wood forest.  It  had  been  cut  and  levelled  sufficiently 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

to  make,  in  winter,  a  fair  road.  After  sprinkling 
and  freezing  there  was  a  floor  like  glass.  Hartle, 
who  had  blazed  it  out  in  the  early  autumn,  had  tried 
to  save  on  the  curves  and  shorten  the  trip  by  adding 
to  the  danger.  The  road  went  clean  over  some  of 
the  steepest  pitches  when  a  loop  might  have  avoided 
them. 

"  Steady,  boy,  steady,"  called  back  Enoch,  swing- 
ing his  lantern  back  and  forth  as  his  keen  eyes  trav- 
elled over  the  road  ahead. 

The  horses  pulled  strenuously,  climbing  a  little 
hill,  at  the  top  of  which  the  worst  descent  began. 
Little  lanterns  fastened  between  their  ears  were  like 
the  strange,  large  eyes  of  a  fabled  animal,  behind 
which  their  forms  and  the  unwieldy  bulk  of  the  load 
loomed  vaguely,  like  a  terrifying  nightmare. 

"  Can't  you  help  her  a  little  more,  Punch  ?"  called 
Azzy,  in  his  human  conversational  tones,  as  he  touch- 
ed up  the  bay  with  his  long  whip-lash. 

"  There  now — that's  better.  Bully  for  you,  Judy. 
Here  we  are  at  the  top.  Whoa  a  bit!  Rest  a  spell. 
Hi-hum-Harry,  but  my  hands  are  cold!" 

The  boy  drew  off  his  double  mittens  and  applied 
his  fingers  alternatively  to  the  warmth  of  his  lips 
and  breath.  The  horses  stood  on  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Far  away  to  the  east,  behind  the  black  bank  of  hills 
over  Loon  Lake,  intimations  of  the  winter  dawn  show- 
ed in  a  strip  of  rusty  yellow  like  a  fluted  ribbon 
behind  the  applique  of  lace-work  forest.  On  either 
side  of  the  hollowed  road  the  snow  lay  frothed  up 
in  banks,  with  the  forest  trunks,  numberless  and  slim, 
barely  discernible  in  grayness.  Somewhere  among 
the  trees  was  heard  the  voice  of  a  man  mano?uvring 
a  single  log  that  had  been  left  behind  by  the  skidder.. 

10 


Joe   Hartleys  Job 

Down  in  the  hollow  to  the  right  one  could  almost  have 
dropped  a  plumb-line  to  where  some  lights  quivered 
and  strayed  like  a  huddling  group  of  fire-flies.  They 
were  the  road  gang  who  kept  the  road  in  repair, 
shovelling  dirt  or  spreading  straw  where  the  sleds 
were  to  be  retarded,  and  putting  snow  on  the  levels 
where  it  was  worn  away.  They  were  in  ill  humor, 
having  been  kept  out  too  late  the  night  before,  and 
this  morning  they  had  scamped  their  work.  Below 
the  sharp  curve,  where  a  great  pine-tree  stood,  the 
road  had  been  cut  out  of  the  side-hill.  On  the  left 
hand  the  upward  slope  made  a  high  wall  overhanging 
the  road.  On  the  right  the  hill-side  fell  abruptly 
away  into  a  ravine,  where  some  forty  feet  down 
Witchhopple  Brook  lay  under  its  blanket  of  snow. 
The  sides  of  the  ravine  had  been  swept  by  a  fire  the 
preceding  summer,  so  that  now  its  rounded  contour 
was  unbroken  by  trees.  It  was  around  this  curve  that 
Azzy  had  to  pass  when  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  on  the  crest  of  which  he  had  paused  to  breathe 
his  horses. 

In  the  terrible  hush  of  winter  dawn  on  the  moun- 
tain Enoch  Holme's  heart  was  full  of  bitterness.  The 
lot  of  a  lumberman  had  not  always  been  his,  nor  yet 
would  it  be  his  life-calling.  Of  that  he  felt  assured, 
though  there  were  possibilities  in  it  of  out-door  free- 
dom, of  largeness,  of  virility,  that  appealed  to  his 
sturdy  and  resolute  nature.  Under  a  contractor  like 
Joe  Hartle,  lumbering  became  intolerable. 

He  swung  his  torch  before  and  behind,  shooting 
out  a  pathway  of  red  over  the  glazed  whiteness  of 
the  snow.  The  tracks  for  the  runners  were  well 
gravelled. 

"All's  well!"  he  shouted. 
11 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

Azzy's  team  began  the  down-hill,  the  harsh  gravel 
scarcely  seeming  to  hold  back  the  runners  as  the 
heavy  load  gathered  to  itself  momentum  with  the 
grade.  The  steel  shoes  were  braked  with  chains 
which  ground  savagely  into  the  tracks,  but  even  so 
Azzy's  heart  was  in  his  throat  as  the  horses  galloped 
under  the  urging  of  the  great  load  at  their  heels. 
All  he  could  do  was  to  guide  them.  Even  if  he  had 
been  able  to  check  their  speed,  the  logs  would  have 
crushed  downward  on  them,  dragging  them  under, 
in  the  onward  rush  of  the  big  sled.  Now  for  the 
curve  and  the  side-hill.  lie  gathered  the  reins  tight 
into  his  hands  and  held  them  with  wrists  of  iron. 

"  Whoa  there,  Punch !    Steady,  Judy,  old  girl !" 

Enoch,  on  foot  in  advance,  heard  the  ponderous 
swift  load  approach  at  the  same  time  that  he  discov- 
ered just  around  the  curve  a  defective  layer  of  sand 
over  the  ice  of  the  tracks.  It  was  so  thin  here  that 
it  would  scarcely  retard  the  action  of  the  runners. 
The  sled  would  be  shot  forward  with  tremendous 
violence.  The  maddened  horses  would  be  crushed 
to  death,  and  Azzy —  Good  God,  Azzy ! 

"  Jump  for  your  life !"  he  shouted,  standing  for 
one  second  directly  in  front  of  the  plunging  team  as 
they  pounded  towards  him.  Then,  catching  an  over- 
hanging limb,  he  swung  himself  up  the  slope  as  the 
terrified  horses  dashed  past  him. 

"Whoa  there,  Punch.  Steady,  Judy,"  called 
Azzy's  brave  young  voice,  as  the  runners  slid  on  the 
treacherous  ice.  The  chained  logs  creaked  and  strain- 
ed, impending  forward. 

Enoch,  watching,  saw  the  gigantic  weight  of  them 
careening  to  the  outside  curve,  as  Azzy  drew  on  the 
ineffectual  lines.  If  he  but  made  the  turn  the  rest 

12 


Joe    Hartleys  Job 

of  the  journey  might  be  accomplished.  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  The  inside  runner  was  thrown  up  on 
the  middle  ridge.  The  sled  over  -  balanced.  The 
depth  of  the  ravine  was  below.  The  struggling  horses 
had  the  strength  of  kittens  against  the  force  of  the 
overthrow.  Over  and  over  they  crashed,  horses  and 
logs,  with  a  fearful  sound  of  riven  chains  and  broken 
timber. 

"  In  God's  name,  where  is  Azzy  ?"  thought  Enoch. 
He  dared  not  look  below. 

When  Azzy  felt  the  load  sway  under  him,  when 
the  nigh  horse  lost  his  footing,  Azzy's  eyes  grew 
blind,  and  swift,  merciful  oblivion  drowned  his  senses 
— a  wave  of  the  sea  that  sweeps  over  one  when  calam- 
ity is  too  awful.  Then  a  sharp  scratch  roused  the 
benumbed  senses.  A  frozen  branch  tore  across  his 
face,  and  instinctively  he  flung  up  his  hands  to  grasp 
— something.  The  sled  was  no  longer  beneath  him.  He 
hung,  and  a  sound  like  thunder  was  in  his  ears.  His 
eyes  were  tight  shut,  all  his  faculties  were  concen- 
trated in  that  iron  grasp  of  the  something — when  he 
heard  his  brother's  voice,  "  Thank  God,  it  is  Azzy !" 

Unconsciously  his  fingers  lost  their  tension,  and 
with  surprising  quickness  Azzy  found  himself  floun- 
dering in  snow  to  his  waist.  He  had  dropped  from 
the  branch  that  swept  above  the  road.  Enoch  stood 
above  him,  also  the  stranger,  Dick. 

"  Jerusalem,  that  was  a  close  shave !"  the  boy 
exclaimed,  rubbing  the  snow  out  of  his  eyes.  He 
looked  about  him  dazed.  "  Where  are  my  horses  ?" 

Then  Enoch,  up  to  this  time  speechless,  was  over- 
come. He  had  the  emotional  nature  that  goes  with 
great  physical  strength  and  the  unconsciousness  of 
a  big,  simple  nature. 

13 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  God  in  heaven !  Come  to  me,  Azrael,"  he  cried. 
He  drew  his  brother  to  his  heart  and  held  him  there. 

Dick  stood  to  one  side,  the  tears  in  his  transparent 
eyes.  But  Azzy  had  been  in  the  danger,  not  a  wit- 
ness of  it,  so  he  was  not  correspondingly  moved. 

"  Where  are  my  horses — where  are  Punch  and 
Judy?" 

Enoch  took  him  to  the  hill-top  and  pointed  down- 
ward. A  dark  heap  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  gulch. 

"  I  remember,"  moaned  Azzv.  "  My  poor  Punch 
and  Judy!" 

"  That  coward  Hartle !"  ground  out  Enoch. 

"  We'll  have  an  end  of  this,"  blurted  Dick,  sav- 
agely. 

Azzy  and  Enoch  took  instant  note  of  his  presence. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  ?"  asked  Enoch,  sharply,  shoot- 
ing a  penetrating  glance  at  Dick  from  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows. 

Dick  bit  his  lips,  and  the  susceptible  chin  quiv- 
ered. He  had  made  a  slip,  and  this  man  Enoch  was 
shrewd  enough  to  build  upon  it. 

"  I  meant  nothing,"  he  replied.  "  You  have  a 
fool  for  a  boss,  and  the  sooner  you  know  it  the  bet- 
ter." 

"  That  may  be  so,"  said  Enoch,  "  but  what  busi- 
ness is  it  of  yours  ?" 

Dick  admired  Enoch  for  his  straightforwardness 
and  dogged  reticence. 

"  A  man  worth  having,"  he  thought. 

Enoch  did  not  like  Dick.  He  believed  Dick  was 
either  more — or  less — than  he  seemed.  It  is  curious, 
this  interplay  of  temperament — by  the  same  process 
like  and  dislike  generated. 

14 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Duel 

THE  men's  shanty  at  Hartle's  Camp  was  a  long, 
low  building,  fashioned  of  logs,  the  rough  round 
of  uncut  logs  making  a  picturesquely  corrugated 
exterior  and  interior  surface  for  the  walls.  The 
cracks,  gray-chinked  with  curly  moss,  picked  out  by 
pleasing  lines  of  relief  the  dark  walls.  The 
snow  was  heaped  to  the  eaves  of  the  roof,  except 
where  it  had  been  scooped  away  before  the  win- 
dows. Long  icicles,  ancient  and  substantial,  made 
an  irregular  crystal  lambrequin  across  the  little  win- 
dows. 

Opposite,  among  its  companion  snow-drifts  and 
icicles,  was  the  cook  shanty,  where  the  men  had  their 
meals.  The  sheds  for  the  horses  completed  the  lit- 
tle colony,  the  homely  signs  of  whose  daily  existence 
about  the  doors  marred  the  silent  beauty  of  the  for- 
est. Guarding  the  camp,  in  grave  dignity,  stood  the 
immovable  trees,  their  feet  sunk  into  the  unsullied 
snow,  their  tops  reaching  up  to  the  brilliant  sapphire 
of  sky. 

Blue  jays  conversed  with  each  other  in  various 
keys,  harshly  chiding  the  gray  squirrel  who  gibbered 
in  their  faces,  or  exclaiming,  in  remonstrant  surprise, 
at  the  too  early  appearance  of  the  teamsters,  and 

15 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

sometimes  indulging  in  musical  reflections,  like  the 
joyful  winding  of  watches. 

The  gray  Canada  jays  hopped  up  and  down  the 
log  -  roads,  insolently  familiar  with  things  human, 
and  watched  with  suspicious  shrewdness  the  final 
destination  of  potato  peelings  and  ham  bones  pro- 
ceeding from  the  shanty  door. 

Sometimes  throughout  the  silent  woods  resounded 
the  drumming  of  the  arctic  woodpecker,  knocking 
for  his  dinner  at  some  hospitable  door,  and  his  orange 
head  gleamed  against  a  purple  trunk.  Except  for 
such  and  a  few  kindred  noises  the  woods  were  quiet 
all  day  long,  the  blue  shadows  filtering  through  in 
exquisite  patterns  on  the  snow-floor,  and  the  great 
clouds  drifting  along  the  hill-tops,  peach-colored  in 
contrast  with  the  snow's  blue  sparkle  and  glisten. 
The  deer  came  and  went  quietly,  keeping  by  day  far 
within  their  yards.  The  foxes,  the  rabbits,  the  wood- 
mice,  and  the  grouse  left  the  marks  of  their  little 
feet  in  lively  hierographs  along  the  lumber  roads 
where  Enoch  went  at  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
Sometimes,  half  smiling,  he  would  decipher  the  auto- 
biographies inscribed  by  the  little  people  of  the  un- 
derwoods, while  the  authors  themselves  remained  in- 
scrutable. More  often,  as  he  hurried  by,  he  would 
reflect  upon  the  law  of  leisure,  necessary  to  the  high- 
est development  of  beauty  and  strength.  The  oppor- 
tunity to  wait  is  an  element  of  success,  but  many 
there  are  who,  by  the  very  force  of  circumstances, 
choose  what  is  not  their  calling.  Leisure  to  wait  is 
not  given  to  all.  After  Enoch's  two  years  in  a  coun- 
try college  he  had  been  called  back  to  his  lumbering 
by  family  exigencies,  but  he  had  first  sought  ordina- 
tion from  the  Methodist  Church.  Absolutely  un- 

1G 


The   Duel 

sectarian  as  his  training  had  been,  in  a  primitive 
community  where  churches  had  died  out,  yet  his 
deeply  religious  instinct  craved  expression  in  a  sim- 
ple sort  of  ministry  among  his  own  people  and  in 
the  camp.  The  ordination  gave  him  a  certain  au- 
thority. 

On  the  night  after  Azzy's  accident,  he  strode  down 
the  logging  road  alone,  at  sunset,  noting  how  the 
top  of  Mount  Taseco  flamed  to  rose,  reflecting  the 
western  glory. 

The  light  -  hearted  lumbermen  following  him 
"  horsed  "  each  other  jovially,  the  thought  of  supper 
a  star  of  hope  before  them.  Only  Eli  Barhite  was 
silent.  The  horses,  Punch  and  Judy,  had  been  his, 
born  and  bred  on  his  little  farm  among  the  Adiron- 
dack foot-hills. 

"  Ye're  daown  abaout  the  bosses,"  said  Gene, 
scornfully.  "  What's  the  difference  ?  Ye'll  get  the 
price  of  them  from  Joe." 

"  It's  not  the  worth  of  the  bosses  I  mind,"  said 
Eli,  "  but  they  was  the  kindest  -  natured  critters  I 
ever  seen.  Judy  there,  you  couldn't  frighten  her  at 
nothing,  but  Punch,  he  frightened  at  pichers.  My 
girl,  she  drived  him  one  day  from  Mis'  Spriggs  over 
to  the  Corners  out  home.  You  know  whar  the  bridge 
crosses  Elder  River,  and  there  was  a  circus  come  by 
there  and  had  stuck  up  their  pichers  on  the  fence 
beyont.  There  was  one  of  a  lady  with  red  stockings 
up  to  her  waist  and  not  much  else  in  the  way  of 
trimmins  and  the  rosiest  cheeks  you  ever  seen  and 
hair  all  yeller.  It  was  painted  real  good,  I  thought, 
but  Punch,  he  frightened  at  the  picher  and  ran  clean 
home,  tight  as  he  could  lick.  Now,  warn't  that 
curious  ?" 

B  17 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

Eli  laughed  his  gentle,  toothless  laugh  at  Punch's 
eccentric  disapproval  of  high  art. 

"  He  always  shied  at  it  when  I  took  him  past,  till 
Hartle's  boys  teared  out  the  legs  and  then  he  didn't 
seem  to  mind.  I  reckon  he  was  gettin'  used  to  the 
picher  by  that  time,  anyway." 

"  I  reckon  he  was,"  Gene  added,  with  ironic  in- 
difference to  Eli's  horse  psychology. 

There  were  two  men  that  ate  their  meals  in  si- 
lence that  evening:  Joe  Hartle,  somewhat  subdued 
after  the  morning's  bluster,  glancing  sidelong  at  the 
men  to  see  if  they  were  looking  at  him,  and  Enoch 
Holme,  wondering  what  the  outcome  would  be  of  the 
disaffection  at  the  camp,  and  whether  his  duty  to 
the  Hollister  firm  would  demand  any  action  from 
him.  Enoch's  nature  courted  rather  than  shunned 
responsibility,  so  fearful  was  he  of  not  doing  his 
full  duty.  This  characteristic,  over  -  developed  or 
wrongly  directed,  becomes  tyranny.  Hartle's  leathery 
neck  bent  over  his  plate,  and  the  food  passed  with  un- 
remitting speed  from  his  knife  to  his  mouth,  till 
by  pushing  back  his  plate  he  signified  that  his  appe- 
tite was  appeased.  To  the  great  relief  of  his  mess- 
mates, he  banged  out  of  the  room. 

"  Jerked  out  like  a  butt-log  from  the  chute  bot- 
tom," remarked  Lawless,  dryly.  Nothing  could  'a' 
held  him  back." 

"  Whar's  he  going  to,  anyway  ?"  asked  one  of  the 
men. 

"  This  place  is  too  small  fer  him,"  Eli  said,  with 
slow  irony.  "  He's  got  more  important  business  on 
hand." 

"  He  better'd  go  out  and  count  dead  hosses,"  Azzy 
blurted  out.  "  There's  one  thing  I  know — I'm  going 

18 


The    Duel 

to  get  my  time  from  him  Saturday  and  clear  out  o' 
this." 

"  So  be  I,"  added  one  and  another  of  the  men. 
"  We've  had  about  all  we  can  stand  of  Joe  Hartle. 
We've  got  our  Avomen  and  children  to  consider,  and 
this  here  is  too  risky." 

"  Cut  off  yer  own  noses,"  drawled  Davy,  a  thin, 
yellow  man,  with  a  cast  in  one  eye.  "  Whar's  all 
your  good  money,  come  spring  time  ?  Ye've  et  it  up, 
and  whar's  yer  women  and  childer  ?" 

Dick,  the  stranger,  sat  removed  from  this  hurly- 
burly  of  argument,  an  ancient  and  dog-eared  novel 
spread  before  him  on  the  table  in  the  light  of  the 
ill-trimmed  lamp.  The  men  had  forgotten  his  pres- 
ence. 

"  I'm  going  to  clear  out  o'  this,"  reiterated  Azzy, 
glancing  round  the  group  and  then  a  bit  anxious- 
ly at  his  brother,  who,  scowling  and  stern-mouthed, 
was  wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts. 

"  There's  one  thing  and  only  one  thing  to  be  done," 
Enoch  said,  rising  and  commanding  intent  attention. 
"  It's  not  to  leave  the  job  and  lose  our  own  wages ; 
what  would  happen  then  ?" 

Dick  looked  up  from  the  yellow  pages  of  his  book, 
and  scanned  the  speaker  attentively. 

"  More  hands  taken  on,  more  trouble  for  Joe  and 
them,  from  bad  to  worse.  That  is  not  the  way  out, 
boys." 

"  What,  then  ?"  came  several  voices. 

"  Colonel  Hollister  should  be  informed."  Enoch's 
tone  rang  firm  against  the  opposition  he  knew  would 
follow.  There  was  no  crime  on  their  calendar  more 
despicable  than  informing.  A  reform  however  de- 
sirable, retribution  however  praiseworthy,  was  never 

19 


The   Strength  of  the    Hills 

an  offset  for  the  unsavory  reputation  of  an  "  inform- 
er." A  deer-killer,  for  instance,  was  practically  se- 
cure from  arrest  when  the  game  warden  was  a  mem- 
ber of  his  community. 

"  Who  in  hell  will  inform  him,  Enoch  ?"  asked 
Gene  Lawless.  "  There  ain't  none  of  us  boys  as  'ud 
go  back  on  a  mate." 

"  No,  no,"  growled  the  "  boys,"  sullenly. 

"  By  gosh,  Colonel  Hollister  oughter  know,"  pro- 
nounced Gene,  bitterly,  "  but  I  ain't  the  one  to  tell 
him." 

"  We're  afraid  to,"  said  Enoch.  "  We  ain't  afraid 
to  break  a  man's  head  for  a  personal  grudge,  but 
we're  afraid  to  tell  an  honest  tale  to  right  a  wrong. 
We  ain't  afraid  of  the  thing — we're  afraid  of  the 
name  of  the  thing." 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?"  asked  Azzy,  clearly.  The  dog- 
room  waited  intently  for  his  answer.  Enoch  was  not 
afraid  to  be  silent  for  an  appreciable  moment.  Dick, 
the  new  man,  turned  the  pages  of  the  ancient  novel 
with  unthinking  fingers. 

"  If  Joe  Hartle's  thrown  out,  I  take  his  place. 
You  all  know  that,  boys.  That's  what  I  am  afraid 
of.  I'd  rather  lose  this  right  hand  than  oust  a  man 
for  my  own  gain." 

"  What  are  ye  buzzing  about  ?"  said  Hartle,  un- 
expectedly entering  the  room.  He  flung  his  frieze 
cap  on  the  wood-pile  and  looked  at  Enoch. 

"  About  you." 

"  You  be,  be  you  ?  Well,  out  with  your  preacher 
talk  to  my  face,  and  then  to  hell  with  you !" 

"  Leave  the  room,"  said  Enoch,  addressing  the 
men.  "  Leave  the  room,"  as  they  hesitated.  "  I'll 
have  it  out  with  Hartle  between  ourselves." 

20 


The    Duel 

"  You  softies,  what  are  ye  mindin'  him  for  ?  Stand 
by  and  see  the  fun." 

"  Ain't  you  a  match  for  him,  Joe  ?"  asked  Gene 
Lawless. 

"  Lordy !  you're  right,  my  boy.  It's  more  than 
a  stand-off  between  me  and  the  preacher  any  day." 

"  You're  better  off  without  us'n,"  said  Eli.  "  We 
mought  pitch  in  at  the  wrong  time." 

"  And  spile  my  innings,"  laughed  Joe,  bitterly. 
Then  he  looked  suspiciously  at  Enoch.  "  What  ye 
want  of  me,  anyway  ?" 

"  You  have  an  accounting  to  make  to  me,"  said 
Enoch,  with  slow  significance.  "  You  put  my  broth- 
er's life  in  the  balance  and  'twas  only  God's  mercy 
that  saved  him." 

"  And  it'll  only  be  God's  mercy  that  could  save 
you  to-night,"  jeered  Joe,  profanely.  "  Clear  out 
o'  here,  boys.  You — Dick  there,  you're  a  stranger 
and  not  particular  as  to  sides.  You  stay  and  be 
referee." 

Dick  smiled.  "  Why  don't  you  go  out  into  the 
open  ?  This  is  a  dashed  little  hole  for  two  big  men." 

"  We  need  the  lamp  and  the  table  for  our  ac- 
counting," replied  Enoch,  simply. 

"  Bless  me,  if  Enoch  Holme  ain't  going  to  fight," 
whispered  Eli  to  Gene,  as  they  stumped  across  the 
icy  road  to  the  cook  shanty. 

"  I  ain't  never  none  too  sure  of  what  Enoch's 
going  to  do,"  replied  Gene,  "  but  there's  the  devil 
to  pay  when  he  gets  that  look  in  the  eyes." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Enoch,  within.  He  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  pad  of  paper  and  a  pencil. 

"  What  in  blazes  ?    Last  will  and  testament  ?" 

"  Sit  down  there  and  write," 
21 


The   Strength  of  the  Hills 

"What  in  blazes?" 

"  Sit  down  there  and  write." 

It  was  a  contest  of  will,  not  of  brute  strength,  as 
the  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  while  the  smiling 
young  fellow  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  watched 
the  curious  scene. 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"  You  are  going  to  write  an  account  of  what  hap- 
pened to-day  on  Blue  Mountain." 

"The  devil  I  am!" 

"  And  of  the  break-down  last  week." 

"  Go  on." 

"  And  of  the  whiskey  you've  drunk — that's  play- 
ed the  mischief  with  you." 

"The  devil  I  am!" 

"  And  you're  going  to  sign  your  name  and  I  mine, 
and  this  stranger  his." 

"You're  a  fool,  Enoch  Holme!" 

"  And  you  will  send  it  to  Colonel  Hollister." 

"I  will,  eh?" 

"  You  will  write  it  on  this  paper."  Enoch  laid 
the  pad  upon  the  table.  "  And  with  this  pen- 
cil." 

Joe's  fingers  closed  around  the  pencil.  "  That's 
all  very  fine,"  he  sneered,  "  in  a  story-book.  Now 
for  business." 

Enoch  stopped  him  as  he  commenced  throwing 
off  his  coat. 

"  Not  so  quick.     Sit  down  and  write." 

Joe  sat  down  in  the  chair,  the  pencil  still  in  his 
hand.  Enoch  sat  opposite. 

"  It's  got  to  be  done,  Joe.  If  not  by  you,  by  some- 
body else.  Now  go  ahead." 

"  By  somebody  else !"  Joe  wilted  a  little  before 
22 


The   Duel 

Enoch's  incisive  gaze.  "  Oh,  the  devil  take  you, 
Enoch  Holme !" 

"Go  ahead!" 

The  brief,  ominous  simplicity  and  calmness  of 
Enoch's  tone,  its  finality,  had  their  effect  upon  Joe. 
It  would  cost  him  nothing  to  write  those  few  lines. 
It  would  mean  nothing.  He  would  tear  the  paper 
to  pieces  the  next  morning  in  Enoch's  face.  What 
lay  behind  that  relentless  fixity  of  gaze?  Had  he 
really  the  power  to  force  him  to  write  against  his 
will  ?  He  would  be  a  fool  if  he  wrote  a  word.  What 
would  Enoch  do  if  he  refused?  Something  within 
him  had  been  warning  him  of  trouble  ahead — the 
looks  of  his  men,  their  silence.  This  would  stave 
it  off.  The  men  had  agreed  on  this  between  them. 
Enoch  was  the  arch  conspirator.  Hang  it  all,  why 
couldn't  he  keep  away  from  the  bottle? 

"Go  ahead!" 

The  blue  eyes  met  his  own  and  cauterized  them. 

"  Why  have  I  got  to  do  this  ?" 

"  It's  the  only  way  out  for  you.     Begin." 

Joe's  clumsy  fingers  directed  the  pencil  across  the 
paper.  When  he  finished  he  would  get  up  and  fling 
the  lamp  at  Enoch's  head. 

Dick,  over  in  his  corner,  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  this  curious  duel.  He  adored  physical 
strength  and  physical  courage.  He  had  given  Enoch 
credit  for  both.  This  was  a  sort  of  moral  duel  that 
did  not  appeal  to  him,  but  the  unusualness  of  Enoch's 
attitude  piqued  his  curiosity.  He  supposed  the  fel- 
low was  acting  from  a  sense  of  duty.  There  is  a  great 
difference  between  duty  and  honor.  The  latter  Dick 
understood,  but  not  the  former.  The  sphinx  herself 
could  not  make  clear  to  some  people  the  genesis  of 

23 


The   Strength   of  the  Hills 

acts  that  spring  from  inborn  morality.      They  are 
more  difficult  to  understand  than  vices  to  the  good. 

"  Read  it,"  said  Enoch,  as  Joe  laid  aside  his 
pencil. 

Joe  laughed  derisively  and  read  the  brief  docu- 
ment. 

"  It  will  do.     You  have  signed  it  ?" 

Enoch  added  his  name  and  then  pushed  the  paper 
down  the  table  to  Dick,  who,  reluctant,  but  still  more 
reluctant  not  to  play  out  his  part  in  the  little  drama, 
wrote  his  signature. 

"  Dick  ?  Just  Dick  ?  Have  you  no  surname, 
man  ?"  Enoch  darted  a  question  from  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows. 

"  I'll  add  my  other  name  when  it's  time." 

Enoch  despised  mystery,  and  the  affectation  of 
mystery  still  more. 

"  It's  time  now,"  he  said,  grimly. 

"  You're  mistaken,"  laughed  Dick.    "  Look  out !" 

Joe  was  reaching  furtively  across  the  table  for 
the  document.  Now  that  the  tension  of  the  situa- 
tion was  relaxed,  he  realized  his  folly.  Enoch  turn- 
ed at  Dick's  warning  and  laid  his  great  hand  on  the 
paper. 

"  Let  it  be  there.  It  is  part  of  the  accounting 
between  us,  Joe.  You've  stood  in  my  way  once  too 
often.  You  came  between  me  and  the  contract. 
We'll  let  that  pass.  You  insulted  me  before  my  men 
this  morning.  We'll  let  that  pass.  You  risked  my 
brother's  life  on  a  cowardly  venture.  There's  that 
between  us." 

"  Who  are  you,  anyway  ?" 

"  I'm  your  conscience,  and  when  I'm  through  with 
you  I'll  let  you  alone." 

24 


The    Duel 

Dick  scarcely  knew  whether  to  admire  or  despise 
the  sublime  moral  arrogance  of  this  man. 

Davy's  voice  was  heard  from  outside,  from  the 
little  window  where  he  had  been  peeping  in. 

"  For  all  the  world,  boys,  Joe's  a-sittin'  there  as 
gentle  as  a  suckin'  lamb." 

Joe  tumbled  to  his  feet,  with  an  oath,  flinging  the 
lamp  across  the  table  at  Enoch.  It  crashed  upon 
the  floor  and  went  out,  leaving  the  room  in  darkness 
except  where  it  was  streakily  lighted  by  the  central 
stove.  The  fight  for  which  Dick's  fingers  had  been 
tingling  precipitated  itself  in  good  earnest.  Joe  was 
the  aggressor  and  Enoch  on  the  defensive.  The  quick, 
short  breathing  of  the  men,  and  the  sound  of  wres- 
tlers in  deadly  interlock  filled  the  room.  Then  there 
was  a  fall.  Joe  was  down,  Enoch  over  him,  his  knee 
upon  Hartle's  chest. 

"  Look  out !"  cried  Dick  again,  as  he  caught  a 
metallic  gleam  in  the  dark.  As  Enoch  jerked  him- 
self backward  and  Dick  sprang  forward,  Joe's  pistol 
went  off,  and  the  next  moment  was  knocked  from  his 
hand  by  Dick. 

"  He's  only  shot  himself,"  said  Dick,  as  the  men 
rushed  in.  "  Why  didn't  you  fight  him  in  the  first 
place  instead  of  this  confounded  confession  busi- 
ness ?" 

Joe,  half  stunned  by  his  fall,  and  his  arm  limp 
from  the  pistol  wound,  was  being  led  up-stairs,  curs- 
ing, by  one  of  the  men. 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  said  Dick  to  Hartle.  "  You  had 
better  thank  your  stars  it  wasn't  murder." 

"  Murder !  My  God !  Take  me  to  bed,  boys,"  said 
Hartle. 

"  Wait !"  cried  Enoch.  A  sudden  revulsion  of 
25 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

feeling  had  come  over  him,  over  his  own  part  in 
this  miserable  scuffle.  He  wanted  to  wash  his  hands 
of  the  whole  business  and  go  out  of  the  woods. 

"  Here's  your  paper.    You  don't  want  it  ?" 

Then  Enoch  opened  a  stove  cover  and  thrust  it 
into  the  flames. 

"  I  like  you  for  that,"  said  Dick,  who  unaccount- 
ably seemed  the  controlling  spirit.  "  But  Colonel 
Hollister  shall  know  of  it  just  the  same." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I'm  Dick  Hollister." 

Dick  smiled  as  he  found  himself  the  centre  of  the 
rough  group.  It  was  a  pleasing  and  novel  moment. 


CHAPTER  III 
An   Initial  and  a  Name 

FOB  some  months  now,  since  Dick's  adventurous 
visit  to  the  woods,  Enoch  had  been  boss  on  the  Hollis- 
ter  job.  During  that  time  he  had  been  receiving 
from  the  Hollister  Lumber  Company  letters  signed 
A.  MacDonald,  Secretary.  They  had  been  in  the 
nature  of  brief  acknowledgments  of  his  monthly 
statements,  or  detailed  specifications  of  the  lumber 
required  for  the  mills,  or  questions  on  the  condition 
of  the  uncleared  lands  of  the  company,  of  the  in- 
terlucation  necessary,  the  yield  of  the  hard  -  wood 
stands,  the  loss  by  fire  and  slash,  and  other  such  mat- 
ters as  pertained  to  large  lumber  interests.  These 
letters  were  type-written,  with  the  letter-head  printed 
boldly  across  the  top  of  the  large  sheet: 

HOLLISTER  &  HOLLISTER, 

Lumber  and  Timber, 

Doors,  Sashes,  and  Blinds. 

New  York  Offices,  26-28  Greenville  Street. 

Yards,  46-50  Dock  Place,  Newark. 
Mills,  Elk  Mountain  Village,  Essex  County. 

The  name  A.  MacDonald  was  written  in  a  legible 
hand  of  unusual  character. 

There  is  an  undefmable  flavor  of  personality  about 
27 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

even  the  driest  of  business  communications,  and  by 
many  trifling  but  insignificant  touches  does  a  cor- 
respondence sketch  the  unknown  correspondent  un- 
til the  cumulative  effort  is  a  clear  mental  concept  of 
person  impressed  upon  each  recipient. 

When  these  two  correspondents  come  face  to  face, 
the  mutual  concepts  may  or  may  not  be  verified. 
Curiously  enough,  some  people  can  convey  by  word 
of  pen  a  graciousness  which  they  are  not  able  to  sus- 
tain by  word  of  mouth,  while  the  crudeness  of  oth- 
ers' written  speech  is  mollified  by  adroitness  of  per- 
sonal manner  and  softness  of  eye  to  an  effort  of 
pleasing  frankness. 

Nevertheless,  it  will  remain  true  that  every  im- 
pression one  can  make  corresponds  to  some  phase  of 
soul,  and  latent  capacities  expressed  in  no  other  way 
are  sometimes  expressed  in  a  letter. 

A.  MacDonald,  while  conveying  the  instructions  of 
the  chief,  conveyed  also  an  impression  of  distinct  per- 
sonality, clear-headed,  well-bred,  compact,  and  most 
of  all,  delicate  and  unsordid.  Enoch  Holme,  young, 
college-bred  but  unlettered,  country-bred  but  not  rus- 
tic, stern,  simple,  ambitious,  sat  at  his  rough  table 
in  a  shanty  in  the  woods,  and  looked  at  the  latest  com- 
munication from  Hollister  &  Hollister.  It  was  even- 
ing. The  men  of  the  camp  were  asleep  in  their  bunks 
up-stairs,  miles  of  frozen  white  forest  between  them 
and  civilization. 

"  Mr.  Hollister  wishes  you  to  assume  complete  control  of 
the  operations  in  the  Blue  Mountain  contract"  [it  read], 
"  and  has  complete  confidence  that  whatever  changes  you 
may  make  in  the  administration  of  the  job,  will  be  for 
the  best.  The  contract  with  Hartle,  as  per  our  last  letter, 

28 


An   Initial   and   a  Name 

has  been  annulled  on  account  of  non-fulfilment  of  condi- 
tions undertaken  by  him,  and  the  undertaking  will  there- 
fore fall  into  your  hands  to  underlet  or  directly  control 
as  you  find  desirable. 

"  The  company  wish  me  to  extend  to  you  their  compli- 
ments upon  your  prompt,  loyal,  and  disinterested  action 
in  the  late  disorder.  It  has  been  noted  that  you  have 
shown  an  unusual  degree  of  fitness  for  your  present  posi- 
tion. I  beg  to  remain,  sir, 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"ALISON  MACDONALD,  Secretary. 
«  (For  Hollister  &  Hollister.)  " 

There  were  two  circumstances  that  made  this  let- 
ter, to  Enoch,  remarkable,  and  caused  him  to  ponder 
over  it  so  long  and  earnestly.  It  was  now  twelve 
o'clock,  midnight,  and  by  four  o'clock  his  men  would 
be  stirring  and  up  for  the  day's  work.  Notwithstand- 
ing, Enoch  sat  in  heavy  clothes,  with  no  thought 
of  bed,  his  great  brow  resting  on  his  hand,  with  the 
green-shaded  lamp  casting  a  sickly  light  upon  his 
strong-bearded  young  face.  It  was  not  the  circum- 
stance of  his  promotion  to  the  company's  notice  and 
favor,  nor  the  increased  emolument,  nor  the  strange 
disorders  that  had  led  to  these  changes  that  now  oc- 
cupied his  mind,  but  two  apparent  trivialities.  First, 
the  fact  that  the  secretary's  name  was  signed  Alison, 
in  place  of  the  colorless  and  neutral  A.  that  had 
always  served  before  to  introduce  the  cognomen ;  sec- 
ond, that  a  little  slip  of  paper  had  been  enclosed,  evi- 
dently by  mistake,  containing  what  seemed  to  be  a 
memorandum  for  private  use. 

The  handwriting  was  the  same  legible  character 
as  the  well-known  signatures,  but  reduced  in  size  to 
fit  the  tiny  slip — a  reduction  which  lent  it  an  air 

29 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

of  intimate  confidingness.  These  were  the  jottings, 
in  the  absurd  juxtaposition  that  familiarity  with  one's 
self  brings  about,  to  one's  entire  unconsciousness : 

"  Mend  Mary's  doll, 
Browning  Tues.  night. 
Receipt  for  johnny-cake  from  Aunt  Lucy, 
Swami, 

New  saucepan, 
Hat  for  Lohengrin." 

Over  this  Enoch  mused,  smiling  at  times,  and  then 
frowning  in  self-rebuke. 

A.  MacDonald,  how  colorless,  how  passionless,  how 
void!  Alison  MacDonald,  how  rich,  how  piquant, 
how  rare ! 

The  memorandum  had  given  away  the  writer's 
sex.  Though  not  necessarily  inculpating,  it  was  sus- 
picious. A  person  burdened  with  such  various  re- 
sponsibilities as  the  "  mending  of  Mary's  doll," 
Browning  on  a  Tuesday  night,  a  receipt  for  johnny- 
cake,  a  Swami  (whatever  that  might  be,  he,  she,  or 
it),  a  new  saucepan,  and  a  hat  for  Lohengrin  (who 
was  Lohengrin,  and  why  did  he  need  a  hat,  and  why 
must  A.  MacDonald  purchase  its  outfit?) — such  vari- 
ous burdens  belong  only  to  the  gentler  sex.  Even 
Enoch,  with  his  primitive  notions  of  woman's  sphere 
and  his  limited  knowledge  of  woman's  activity,  knew 
this. 

Alison  MacDonald  was  a  woman.  She  had  a  Mary, 
and  Mary  had  a  doll,  and  the  doll  was  broken.  The 
broken  doll  was  not  to  be  thrown  away,  but  to  be 
mended.  Admirable  economy,  Alison! 

Alison  reads  Browning,  belongs  to  a  Browning 
club,  which  meets  on  Tuesdays.  She  is  apt  to  forget 

30  " 


An    Initial   and   a    Name 

those  Tuesdays,  or  she  would  not  make  the  memo- 
randum. Therefore  she  is  not  overfond  of  Brown- 
ing. She  is  young,  or  she  would  not  read  Browning. 
The  picture  grows  clearer,  and  Enoch's  smile  deep- 
ens. 

She  is  domestic,  or  she  would  not  interest  herself 
in  johnny-cake.  He  likes  her  better.  And  what  a 
dear,  fat,  motherly  creature  is  Aunt  Lucy !  Alison's 
mother  is  dead,  or  she  would  not  need  to  go  to  Aunt 
Lucy  for  recipes.  Swami !  Lohengrin !  These  lent 
an  agreeable  mystery  to  the  unknown  one's  life.  And 
what  a  varied  life  it  was!  All  this  beside  the  sec- 
retaryship, Browning,  saucepan,  Lohengrin's  hat, 
johnny-cake,  dolls,  and  letters  for  Hollister  &  Hoi- 
lister. 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  said  Enoch,  aloud  to  himself. 
"  A.  MacDonald  is  a  man,  and  this  is  his  wife's 
memorandum." 

Then  he  looked  at  the  slip  again,  and  laughed 
aloud. 

"  She  is  a  widow-woman  of  forty,  and  Mary  is  her 
twelve-year-old  child." 

Nevertheless,  he  pictured  to  himself  a  clear-eyed 
girl  of  twenty,  with  tapering  fingers  and  a  mellow, 
sympathetic  voice.  He  envied  Hollister  &  Hollister 
their  private  secretary. 

Imaginative  people  live  dual  lives,  one  of  reality, 
the  other  of  their  dreams.  Sometimes  their  lives  are 
many,  depending  on  how  many  avenues  of  thought 
have  been  potentially  opened  to  them.  Enoch  led  two 
lives,  the  life  of  the  present  and  of  the  future.  The 
one  vivified  the  other,  but  in  them  both  he  was  alone. 
Kow  dimly  he  saw  a  new  life,  in  which  he  was  no 
longer  alone.  He  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  slim 

31 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

hands,  of  eyelids  bent  over  Browning,  of  a  white 
apron  fluttering  from  saucepan  to  stove.  Swami  and 
Lohengrin !  There  were  mysteries  in  the  new  life 
which  his  experience  could  not  interpret.  As  a  vision 
unrolled  before  him,  he  saw  a  vast  complicated  pat- 
tern of  people  weaving  in  and  out  upon  a  plain,  the 
heads  of  each  one  full  of  strange  thoughts  un- 
guessed  by  the  others,  the  feet  of  each  one  following 
strange  paths  untrod  by  the  others,  the  eyes  of  each 
one  guided  by  wandering  stars,  unseen  by  the  others, 
and  the  paths  of  those  that  stand  leagues  apart  con- 
verge and  meet,  while  paths  that  lie  side  by  side  con- 
tinue, but  meet  never.  Side  by  side  but  a  planet 
away!  Enoch  put  out  his  hand.  Far,  far  away, 
towards  the  horizon,  he  caught  glimpses  of  a 
little  path  winding  around  a  blossoming  hill. 
And  a  woman's  figure  follows  that  winding  path 
— nearer  and  nearer  she  comes.  The  wet  blos- 
soms fall  upon  her  hair  as  she  brushes  the 
branches.  He  rises,  both  arms  outstretched  to 
meet  her.  He  hears  the  rustle  of  delectable  gar- 
ments. .  .  . 

There  is  the  vigorous  thumping  of  stove-lids  and 
the  thunder  of  logs  tumbled  into  the  cavernous  depths 
of  the  stove.  The  shanty-cook  is  making  the  fire  for 
breakfast.  Clip,  clip,  goes  his  knife  on  the  table, 
striking  through  the  white  round  of  the  pork.  An- 
other day  of  work  has  begun.  Enoch  lifts  his  head 
from  his  desk.  To  what  magic  land  has  that  grimed 
and  bitten  board  upon  which  his  head  has  rested  been 
the  portal,  and  the  open  sesame,  this  slip  of  paper! 
He  folded  it  away  into  an  inner  pocket,  as  the  clatter 
of  boots  down  the  narrow  stairs  announced  the  ar- 
rival to  breakfast  of  his  crew. 

32 


An    Initial   and   a    Name 

Enoch  went  out  to  break  the  ice  in  the  barrel  by 
the  door.  He  dipped  his  basin  into  the  water  and 
plunged  his  face  into  the  icy  bath,  while  the  last 
stars  of  morning  glimmered  coldly  over  the  tops  of 
the  dark  spruce  forest, 
c 


CHAPTER  IV 
Sararose 

SHE  stood  still,  her  watering-pot  in  her  hand,  while 
the  sun,  risen  behind  a  stand  of  young  birches  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  caught  her  copper-colored  hair 
and  turned  it  to  flame  about  her  forehead.  What 
matter  that  the  geraniums  were  dry  and  the  sweet- 
pea  vines  that  clambered  over  the  white-painted  porch 
were  half  watered,  or  that,  within,  a  round  of  house- 
hold duties  awaited  her.  A  wood-thrush  sang,  and 
Sararose  listened. 

Daddy  Holme  sat  on  the  lowest  step  of  the 
porch,  a  blue-checked  apron  spread  over  his  knees, 
and  a  shining  tin  pan  clasped  between  them. 
Beside  him  on  the  ground  was  a  basket  of  peas, 
fresh  pulled  from  the  vines.  The  musical  staccato 
of  the  peas  tinkling  into  the  pan  blended  in  Sara- 
rose's  ears  with  the  orchestral  harmony  of  the  sweet 
morning. 

"  It's  goin'  to  be  hot  as  blazes,"  piped  Daddy, 
plaintively,  running  his  thin  fingers  down  the  opened 
hollow  of  a  pod. 

He  looked  up  for  an  answer,  but  Sararose  had  dis- 
appeared around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Daddy 
leaned  back  against  a  post,  and  his  fingers  wandered 
comfortably  among  the  cool  green  peas.  He  aban- 

34 


Sararose 

doned  himself  to  pleasant  idleness.  Sararose  return- 
ed briskly. 

"  Daddy,  could  you  get  me  some  new  potatoes  for 
dinner  ?  There's  a  row  of  them  might  just  as  well  be 
thinned  out  in  the  back  garden." 

"  I  dunno  as  I  could,  dearie.  The  sun  affects  my 
head  powerful,  and  it's  hard  work  stoopin'  over  fer 
an  old  man  like  me.  I  ain't  as  young  as  I  onct  was." 

Daddy  Holme's  aversion  to  labor  was  no  less  in  his 
old  age  than  it  had  been  in  robust  young  manhood, 
when  he  had  married  Jenica  Renfrew,  the  sweet- 
voiced,  strong-hearted  village  school-teacher,  and  set- 
tled down  to  a  life  of  leisure  on  his  half-cultivated 
farm  lands.  In  another  circle  he  would  have  been 
clubman  and  diner-out.  In  Elk  Mountain  he  was  a 
frequenter  of  the  village  grocery  store  and  habitue 
of  the  blacksmith  shop  when  the  stage  from  Loon 
Lake  came  in,  and  a  rallying  spirit  for  excursions  to 
Windy  Flanders,  that  prince  of  good  fellows  who 
bivouacked  at  the  half-way  house  between  Elk  Moun- 
tain and  Loon  Lake. 

Jenica  Holme  had  continued  her  sway  in  the  little 
red  school-house,  bringing  also  into  the  world  four 
vigorous  boys,  all  of  them  Scripturally  christened, 
John,  Enoch,  Abner,  Azrael,  and  with  her  last  gift 
to  humanity,  a  blue-eyed  girl,  she  had  folded  her 
hands  to  sleep.  Life  had  been  a  strenuous  battle  for 
her,  and  every  one  of  her  four  sons  bore  the  imprint 
of  her  vigorous  nature  and  careful  moulding.  But 
the  little  girl,  the  picture  of  her  father,  had  gone 
straight  to  the  father's  heart,  and  he  cried  out  for  a 
name  of  his  own  choosing,  not  the  Biblical  Sarah 
chosen  by  the  mother,  but  Rose,  a  name  of  summer 
sweetness.  With  her  last  flickering  breath  Mrs. 

35 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

Holme  called  the  little  infant  Sararose,  and  left  her 
in  her  father's  arms. 

His  bright  spirits  and  love  of  beauty  were  still 
with  him.  His  boon  companions  had  mostly  passed 
beyond,  his  own  strength  failed  him  for  the  accus- 
tomed haunts,  and  he  busied  himself  from  day  to 
day  with  the  care  of  a  pet  canary  and  with  the  end- 
less cutting-out  of  paper  dolls  and  the  furnishing  for 
them  of  gay  garments  in  tissue  paper. 

"  Sararose,"  he  quavered,  "  a  dish  of  peas  and  a 
good  slice  of  ham  oughter  be  enough  fer  anybody. 
It's  goin'  to  be  a  hot  day,  too.  Nobody  has  an  appe- 
tite these  dog-days." 

Sararose,  watering  the  geranium  plants  down  the 
little  walk  to  the  gate,  turned  back  to  laugh. 

"  As  far  as  I  can  see,"  she  observed,  "  the  boys 
have  as  much  appetite  in  July  as  January." 

Although  the  youngest  was  five  years  her  senior, 
they  were  the  "  boys  "  to  her.  Her  father  had  the 
hoe  in  his  hard-worn  hand,  and  with  an  obvious  sense 
of  martyrhood  was  slowly  hobbling  down  the  garden 
walk  past  the  woodshed  to  the  potato  rows.  Sudden 
compunction  smote  the  girl. 

"  Daddy,  I'll  dig  them ;  I  don't  mind,"  she  cried, 
dropping  her  watering-can  into  a  rose-bush  and  run- 
ning after  him. 

The  old  man  returned  to  his  pea-pods  with  a  gen- 
tle, contented  murmur,  half  laughter,  half  syllabic, 
while  Sararose  dug  in  the  potato-patch. 

She  was  thin  and  tall,  so  thin  and  so  tall  that  the 
country  people  said  she  looked  as  if  you  could  break 
her  in  two.  Her  faded,  clinging  calico,  its  various 
colors  blended  to  a  general  lilac,  showed  the  model- 
ling of  her  straight,  slight  figure,  saved  from  angu- 

36 


Sararose 

larity  by  a  certain  tenderness  of  outline  and  natural 
grace.  There  was  some  promise  of  future  fulness  in 
the  gentle  curve  of  the  bosom.  Her  neck  was  long, 
her  head  was  small  and  dainty,  with  its  load  of 
silken  red  hair.  Her  hair  had  no  tendency  to  fluffi- 
ness,  but  lay  in  smooth  lines,  waving  agreeably  just 
above  the  ear.  Her  transparent  skin  showed  blue 
veins  on  the  temples.  Her  clear  blue-green  eyes  were 
veiled  by  curling  lashes  of  unusual  length.  It  was  a 
grief  to  her  that  they  were  not  dark  instead  of  pale 
brown. 

The  rich  loam  was  still  misted  with  bedewed  laces 
from  the  night-weaving  spiders.  Sararose,  upturn- 
ing the  pinky  dimpled  potatoes,  sang,  for  it  was  the 
morning  of  life  with  her,  and  though  her  duties  as 
housekeeper  were  heavy,  they  did  not  lie  heavy  on  her 
shoulders.  For  when  one  is  sixteen,  and  it  is  six  in 
the  morning,  and  a  peabody  bird  is  singing  in  a  lilac- 
bush,  trouble  seems  far  away,  and  even  the  hot,  busy 
noontide,  with  fumes  of  boiled  dinner  from  a  big 
cook-stove,  seems  as  far  removed  as  the  valley  from 
the  top  of  Elk  Mountain. 

When  Sararose  returned  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
Daddy,  who  had  fallen  to  day-dreaming,  as  was  his 
wont  when  alone,  or  when  disengaged  from  paper- 
doll  creations,  resumed  somewhat  briskly  his  task, 
and  once  more  the  peas  rattled  musically  into  the 
pan,  and  once  more  Sararose  responded  harmonical- 
ly as  she  swept  the  piazza  and  tidied  up  the  vines 
about  the  columns.  Although  she  did  not  know  it, 
she  was  a  born  musician,  and  perhaps  one  reason  that 
she  took  the  burdens  of  life  so  easily  was  that  she 
set  them  always  to  some  undertime  about  her.  The 
swaying  of  the  canarv  in  its  cage,  the  singing  of  the 

37 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

kettle  on  the  stove,  the  creaking  of  a  branch  in  the 
wind,  the  swish  of  the  mowers  in  the  field,  all  wove 
into  some  great  symphony  which  seemed  forever  one 
with  the  thoughts  of  her  head.  The  music  that  she 
responded  to  now  was  a  livelier  tune,  that  sent  her 
heart  pitter-patter — the  beat  of  a  horse's  feet,  gallop- 
ing along  the  Saranac  road.  Tyke  Loiseau  swung 
into  sight,  mounted  easily  on  his  bay  mare,  the  sad- 
dle-bags at  his  side.  He  paused,  as  Sararose  ex- 
pected, by  the  little  white  gate,  and  she,  as  Loiseau 
expected,  ran  down  to  meet  him,  her  cheeks  aglow — 
with  the  sweeping  perhaps — and  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  Don't  forget  the  dance  to-night,"  he  said,  though 
both  of  them  knew  that  it  was  impossible  for  either 
of  them  to  forget  it. 

"  "No,  Tyke.    What  time  will  you  come  for  me  ?" 

"  Seven  o'clock,  I  reckon.  I  sha'n't  get  back  from 
Saranac  till  nigh  on  to  five.  I'm  going  over  there  for 
a  new  scythe.  One  of  the  hands  broke  my  best  on  a 
stone  wall,  like  a  dumb  fool  that  he  is." 

"  And,  Tyke,  will  you  buy  me  some  green  ribbon  ? 
I  can't  get  any  kind  of  match  at  Eddie's.  Wait  till 
I  fetch  you  a  sample  from  the  house." 

"  Will  you  trust  me  to  match  it  for  you  ?"  asked 
the  delighted  Loiseau,  bending  from  his  saddle  to 
take  the  gauzy  scrap  of  muslin  into  his  sunburned 
hand. 

"  You  couldn't  match  things  better  if  you  was  a 
girl,"  responded  Sararose,  smiling  up. 

"  That's  because  I'm  a  Frenchy,  as  the  boys  say. 
How's  your  father?  Has  he  got  anything  new  in 
polonaises '?" 

Daddy  Holme's  fad  was  a  standing  joke  among 
the  Elk  Mountain  young  people.  This  question  of 

38 


Sararose 

Loiseau's  was  a  familiar  pleasantry,  seasoned  by  long 
standing. 

"  Keally,"  said  Sararose,  earnestly,  "  he  has  cut 
out  a  little  pattern  for  a  skirt  that  is  just  a  beauty. 
It  has  ruffles  running  up  to  a  point,  so,  and  ruches 
of  white  tissue  paper  on  the  edge,  and  I  have  made 
my  green  muslin  like  it  with  white  Valenciennes — " 

"  Valen — what  ?"  laughed  Loiseau,  for  it  was  con- 
sidered clever  in  Elk  Mountain  to  affect  ignorance  of 
the  gentle  art  of  dress-making,  though  there  were 
few  men  who  had  not  learned  by  maturity,  from  the 
inevitable  experience  of  long  winter  evenings,  when 
the  village  seamstress  took  her  turn  at  their  house 
and  held  the  place  of  honor  by  the  "  settin'-room  " 
stove,  the  general  import  of  biases  and  gores  and 
"  fellin'  down  a  seam." 

"  You'll  be  a  picture  in  it,  however  it's  made,"  he 
responded.  "  Never  mind  about  the  money.  I  don't 
bother  with  small  change." 

He  waved  his  hand  to  her  as  he  galloped  off. 

"  At  seven  o'clock,"  he  called  back.  "  Be  sure 
you're  ready  for  me,"  which  in  Elk  Mountain  was  a 
not  ungallant  reminder  of  feminine  weakness. 

Sararose  hummed  a  bar  of  "  After  the  Ball," 
which  had  just  become  epidemic  in  the  mountains, 
some  five  years  after  it  had  passed  the  contagious 
point  in  the  cities  of  the  West.  Her  mind  was  full 
of  the  coming  festivity  and  of  Tyke  Loiseau,  al- 
ways leading  spirit  in  the  gayety  of  the  mountains. 
He  was  different  from  many  of  the  young  men  she 
knew,  for  his  manners  were  distinguished  by  an  in- 
born grace,  and  his  chivalry  was  of  a  finer  sort  than 
is  usual  among  rustic  beaux.  His  fiery  temper,  also, 
was  spoken  of  with  bated  breath.  Indeed,  the  Loi- 

39 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

seau  temper  was  a  tradition  ever  since  the  days  of 
his  great-grandfather,  Philippe  Loiseau,  "  The  Fire- 
brand," who  had  emigrated  from  France,  as  the  story 
went,  for  the  slaying  of  a  grandee  who  had  insulted 
a  woman.  To  Sararose,  Tyke  was  gentleness  itself. 
The  motherless  young  girl,  slight  of  figure,  and  del- 
icate featured,  and  head  of  the  household  among  her 
four  great  brothers,  appealed  to  Loiseau  and  called 
out  all  that  was  best  in  him.  And  Sararose  secretly 
gloried  in  having  attached  to  her  following  a  de- 
scendant of  the  redoubtable  Firebrand,  and  one  whose 
"  spirity  ways  "  commanded  consideration. 

The  peas  began  to  follow  each  other  merrily  once 
more  as  Sararose  approached  the  porch. 

"  Hev  you  ever  thought,"  asked  Daddy,  "  how 
you'd  like  to  be  a  city  folk  ?  I  calc'late  they're  still 
abed  and  asleep  down  at  the  Hollister  Camp,  and 
here  we've  been  about  and  a  -  stirrin'  since  sun  -  up. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  a  mite  if  Colonel  Hollister 
could  pay  a  man  jist  to  set  still  and  fan  him  all  day. 
And  they  says  as  Mis'  Hollister  hez  her  coffee  brought 
to  her  in  bed  and  the  young  leddies  hez  more  dresses 
than  they  c'd  pack  in  a  day,  and  they  don't  never  but- 
ton their  shoes  theirselves." 

The  opening  of  the  Hollister  Camp  had  been  that 
summer's  great  event  at  Elk  Mountain.  For  some 
years  it  had  been  closed,  the  Hollisters  seeking  their 
summer  outings  in  Europe  or  at  sea-shore  resorts. 

The  old  man's  delicate  fingers  fluttered  for  an 
empty  pod  that  had  fallen  among  the  peas,  and  his 
smooth,  bald,  well-shaped,  florid  head,  with  the  pink 
frosted  cheeks  and  shiny  sunken-in  lips,  might  easily 
have  belonged  to  an  epicurean  first-nighter  in  the 
front  row  of  a  "  Made  in  London  "  vaudeville. 

40 


Sararose 

"  I  never  thought  much  about  it,"  Sararose  answer- 
ed, indifferently,  as  she  went  into  the  house.  Her  sew- 
ing-machine was  soon  a-whirring,  and  the  green  mus- 
lin ruffles  began  to  froth  up  at  the  edges  like  waves 
breaking  on  a  rock. 

Jenica  Holme  had  bequeathed  to  her  sons  a  legacy 
more  precious  than  land  or  money — a  high  sense  of 
honor  and  the  quality  of  sympathy.  They  had  always 
been  very  tender  with  the  little  sister,  shielding  her  as 
well  as  they  might,  in  their  rude  way,  from  hardship, 
and  assuming  many  duties  that  the  masculine  charac- 
ter is  prone  to  ignore.  When  the  harvest  hands  were 
on,  Azzy  would  help  her  over  the  stove  and  the  dish- 
pans,  and  on  washing  day,  even  Enoch  had  been 
known  to  lend  his  presence  at  the  wringer. 

Enoch  Holme  stood  out  among  the  brotherhood  as 
the  man  of  mark.  He  had  steadily  worked  his  way 
upward  through  the  schools  of  the  neighborhood  and 
the  high-school  at  Saranac,  under  his  mother's  guid- 
ance and  inspiration,  till  he  was  ready  for  college. 
Then  two  years  of  unremitting  labor,  lumbering  and 
milling,  enabled  him  to  spend  the  next  year  at  col- 
lege— a  little  country  college  in  an  old  town  with  an 
unpronounceable  Indian  name,  beloved  by  foreigners. 
He  had  just  received  ordination  as  a  minister  of  the 
gospel  after  a  further  two  years'  course  at  the  Meth- 
odist college  when  he  was  called  home  by  the  mar- 
riage of  John,  the  oldest  brother,  which  occasioned  a 
redivision  of  family  responsibilities.  John  took  the 
Holme  farm  proper,  where  his  efficient  wife  was  a 
far  more  potent  economic  factor  than  dreamy,  smil- 
ing Sararose  could  ever  have  been.  Enoch  took  the 
timber  land  that  stretched  well  up  Elk  Mountain  and 
the  little  white  cottage  on  Saranac  road,  with  its  few 

41 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

outlying  acres  of  vegetable  garden  and  strawberry- 
beds.  Abner,  according  to  season  and  needs,  would 
live  with  Enoch  or  John.  In  the  sugaring  season  he 
was  in  the  bush.  Azzy  was  an  expert  sawyer  at  Hoi- 
lister's  Mills  and  Sararose's  right-hand  man  at  the 
cottage. 

Both  Enoch  and  Ab  were  much  in  the  woods, 
Enoch  having  been  made  forester  for  their  county. 
Years  before  a  daring  exploiter  of  summer  resorts 
had  bought  from  the  Holme  estate  a  bit  of  land  well 
up  on  the  mountain,  and  set  thereon  a  Swiss  chalet, 
wide-piazzaed  and  deep  fire-placed,  which,  however, 
before  its  completion,  had  been  abandoned.  The  road 
that  had  been  cut  to  it  was  reclaimed  by  the  forest, 
and  the  underbrush  closed  in  around  the  unfinished 
chalet.  Approach  to  it  became  so  difficult  to  remem- 
ber that  it  had  been  nicknamed  "  Lost  Inn,"  and 
here,  even  of  winter  nights,  Enoch  and  Ab,  when  fell- 
ing timber  or  tenting  in  the  woods,  had  the  habit  of 
making  themselves  roughly  comfortable. 

At  twelve  o'clock  Sararose  had  set  on  the  table  the 
dish  of  steaming  stew,  the  little  potatoes,  with  the 
thin,  brown  jackets  splitting  on  their  sleek,  salmon- 
pink  sides,  and  a  bowl  of  peas  at  each  plate.  The 
family  sat  down.  Daddy,  his  paper  dolls  neatly 
folded  away  in  a  large  dry-goods  box,  sat  shining  at 
the  head,  and  Enoch,  big,  Olympian,  and  intense-eyed, 
faced  him  at  the  other  end.  Azzy,  his  loose  flannel 
shirt  displaying  a  sunburned  neck,  fell  to  with  a  zest, 
while  Sararose,  in  a  way  that  the  women  folks  have, 
fluttered  about  from  stove  to  table,  while  the  boys, 
in  a  way  that  men  folks  have,  urged  her  to  sit  down 
and  begin.  She  continued,  imperturbably,  filling  the 
pots  and  pans  and  leaving  them  to  soak  in  the  copper 

42 


Sararose 

sink,  washed  her  hands,  disappeared  into  the  bed- 
room to  rearrange  her  hair,  and  then  reappeared  at 
her  place  in  her  lilac  frock,  as  fresh  and  unconcerned 
as  if  she  had  never  dreamed  the  uses  of  frying-pans 
and  kettles. 

"  Bravo,"  said  Azzy ;  "  you're  a  game  one,  Sara- 
rose.  I'll  bet  June  Hollister  doesn't  look  no  prettier 
when  the  high-up  flunky  pulls  out  the  chair  for  her 
at  luncheon." 

"  Luncheon,"  in  the  accent  of  a  "  native,"  was,  the 
word  alone,  enough  of  a  bon-mot  to  start  a  series  of 
witticisms.  John  had  for  several  years  been  one  of 
the  hotel  guides,  and  had  initiated  his  own  family 
into  many  of  the  mysteries  of  "  behind  the  scenes  " 
in  a  city  camp,  to  the  huge  delight  of  his  auditors. 

"  But  Mis'  Hollister  doesn't  have  to  wait  on  her- 
self," remarked  Sararose,  holding  her  plate  out  to 
Enoch  for  some  stew. 

"  Aw,  pawdon,"  exclaimed  Azzy,  his  blue  eyes 
laughing  and  rising.  He  handed  her  the  plate  with 
an  elaborate  flourish. 

"  What's  going  on  to-night,  Sararose  ?"  asked 
Enoch,  looking  at  the  heap  of  muslin  by  the  sewing- 
machine  in  the  front  room. 

Sararose  blushed.  She  had  half  hoped  that  Enoch 
would  stay  up  at  Lost  Inn  till  Sunday,  for  it  was 
always  a  conflict  between  their  wills  when  she  went 
to  a  dance.  There  had  been  no  absolute  precedent 
established,  for  sometimes  one  side  would  effect  a 
compromise,  sometimes  the  other.  Sometimes  there 
would  be  a  promise  that  she  would  only  dance  the 
square  dance,  or  that  she  would  come  home  at  eleven, 
or,  oftener,  she  would  go  to  spend  the  night  at  a 
friend's  house,  and  let  Enoch  remain  altogether  in 

43 


The  Strength  of  the   Hills 

ignorance  of  the  projected  frivolity.  In  her  decep- 
tion she  was  always  abetted  by  Ab  and  Azzy,  who, 
standing  also  in  awe  of  Enoch's  goodness,  did  not 
share  the  Puritanic  rigor  of  his  views. 

Sararose  to-day  foresaw  a  struggle  and  dreaded  it. 
Before  she  answered,  she  briefly  balanced  the  merits 
of  a  little  clever  hypocrisy  or  absolute  frankness. 
There  is  nothing  more  trying  to  one's  virtue  than  to 
be  overawed  by  a  conscience  not  one's  own. 

"  Just  a  new  dress,  Enoch,"  she  answered.  "  Sum- 
mer's coming  on,  and  I  wanted  something  thin  and 
pretty  for  Sundays." 

Still  blushing,  she  looked  down  at  her  plate,  rap- 
idly swallowing  spoonfuls  of  peas  without  tasting 
them. 

Enoch,  though  stern,  was  unsuspicious.  His  was 
too  large  a  nature  to  follow  up  petty  details.  Azzy, 
however,  noticed  the  conscious  blushes,  and  hastened 
to  ask  Enoch  when  the  next  revival  meeting  was  to 
be.  Enoch,  upon  his  return  from  Hartle's  Camp, 
had  reorganized  the  long-fallen-apart  church  commu- 
nity of  the  mountains.  Many  years  before,  when  the 
iron-mines  of  the  region  had  been  worked,  the  bishop 
of  the  diocese  had  founded  a  little  mission  at  Elk 
Mountain,  but  it  had  proved  an  almost  impractica- 
ble field.  There  were  such  varieties  in  sect  among  the 
miners,  and  the  preachers  who  were  strong  enough 
to  appeal  to  them  invariably  found  themselves  called 
to  a  "  larger  usefulness."  For  many  years  there  had 
been  no  church  services  whatever  within  a  radius  of 
ten  miles  of  the  Elk  Mountain  neighborhood.  The 
nearest  church  was  at  Saranac,  fifteen  miles  distant. 

As  a  curious  development,  denominationalism  had 
almost  died  out,  and  the  little  church  that  Enoch 

44 


Sararose 

planted,  though  nominally  Methodist,  in  reality  be- 
longed to  no  sect  whatever.  He  preached  Christ  to 
them  without  thought  of  creed  or  doctrine,  and,  what 
is  more  unusual,  without  salary  or  perquisites  of  of- 
fice. For  the  last  week  he  had  been  conducting  re- 
vival meetings  near  Loon  Lake,  some  sixteen  miles 
away,  hoping  to  draw  in  some  of  the  rough  guides  and 
trappers,  sparsely  scattered  about  Spriggs's  Corners, 
as  the  settlement  was  called. 

Azzy's  question  surprised  Enoch. 

"  The  next  revival  meeting  ?  Why,  this  evening, 
Azzy.  Aren't  you  coming,  and  you,  Sararose? 
You're  not  too  tired,  little  sister  ?" 

"  Where  ?"  exclaimed  Azzy  and  Sararose  in  one 
breath. 

"  At  Spriggs's." 

There  was  no  concealing  the  matter  any  further. 
It  would  out,  whether  or  no. 

"  Enoch,"  cried  Sararose,  "  some  of  the  young 
folks  is  giving  a  dance  there  to-night,  and  I  was  going 
with  Tyke  Loiseau." 

A  few  minutes  of  uncomfortable  silence  followed, 
during  which  Sararose  glanced  at  her  brother  several 
times,  while  Azzy  ate  his  rhubarb  pie  unconsciously, 
for  it  wasn't  his  funeral  yet,  as  he  assured  himself, 
and  Daddy,  who  had  left  the  table,  sat  on  his  stool 
against  the  wall,  cutting  out  of  brown  paper  a  design 
that  might  have  been  a  Russian  redingote. 

If  Enoch  was  impressive  in  his  every-day  words, 
as  people  truthfully  agreed,  he  was  a  bit  awesome 
when  wrathful  or  gloomy.  His  strange,  unfluctuat- 
ing mouth  and  heavy  chin  were  like  a  calm,  great 
animal's,  that  thinks  and  watches,  but  does  not  feel. 
His  most  noticeable  feature  was  the  fine,  massive, 

45 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

protuberant  forehead,  with  its  loose  mat  of  fawn-col- 
ored hair,  and,  beneath  the  bushy,  fawn-colored  eye- 
brows, the  deep-set,  blue  eyes,  that  almost  hurt  with 
their  keenness.  When  he  joined  in  gayety  those  eyes 
twinkled  with  the  most  compelling  humor ;  when  his 
heart  overflowed  they  were  large  and  limpidly  blue 
with  womanly  tenderness;  when  he  was  stirred  with 
anger  or  "  indignation,"  as  he  would  have  termed  it, 
they  narrowed  and  flashed  like  knife-blades. 

His  bright  -  brown  beard  had  been  close  -  cropped 
since  the  winter's  rough  life,  and  showed  the  mod- 
elling of  the  strong,  homely  features.  Smooth- 
shaven,  his  face  might  almost  have  been  an  actor's, 
there  was  such  play  of  expression  over  the  features 
as  he  talked,  and  in  repose  such  lines  as  mark  a  man 
of  many  emotions.  A  man  of  many  emotions  Enoch 
Holme  was.  Born  of  an  intellectual  and  supersen- 
sitive  mother,  these  qualities  in  him  were  tempered 
by  the  hard  and  prosaic  environment  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  conflicted  also  with  the  abounding  sense  of 
good  comradeship  and  the  Greek  love  of  the  beauti- 
ful that  came  to  him  from  his  father.  He  was  made 
to  be  a  leader  among  men.  He  felt  within  himself 
at  times  the  fierce  outcry  of  energy  going  to  waste, 
and  yet  he  seemed  pinned  down  to  a  barren  future. 

He  had  always  been  somewhat  out  of  sympathy 
Avith  his  kin,  and  they  with  him.  The  ruthless  de- 
sire, actuated  often  by  conscience,  to  impose  his  sense 
of  right  upon  them  had  been  the  cause  of  many  a 
bitter  contest.  His  love  for  his  dead  mother  and  for 
his  sister  Sararose  were  the  great  loves  of  his  life. 
The  love  of  any  other  woman  he  had  never  known, 
nor  had  he  ever  laid  eyes  on  a  woman  to  think  of  her 
a  second  time. 

46 


Sararose 

Finally  he  spoke :  "  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Sararose, 
that  there's  to  be  a  dance  at  Spriggs's,  and  that  you're 
going,  when  all  the  week  you've  been  too  tired  to  go 
to  meeting  even  once  ?" 

Sararose  quailed  before  him. 

"  And  as  to  the  dance,  how  is  it,  Azzy  ?  I've  en- 
gaged that  hall  from  Spriggs  for  two  weeks  running, 
and  no  one  else  has  a  right." 

"  There's  been  a  mistake  somewhere,  Enoch.  I 
know  he  promised  it  to  the  boys  a  good  bit  back.  He 
never  thought  of  your  holding  meetings  the  whole 
week  through.  You  know  you've  never  done  it  be- 
fore." 

"  What  difference  ?"  asked  Enoch,  sharply.  "  If 
I'm  able  to  preach  seven  nights  in  the  week,  and  the 
people  able  to  hear  me,  why  shouldn't  it  be  ?  I  can't 
refuse  them  the  word  they're  starving  for." 

"  It's  too  bad,"  remarked  Azzy,  "  but  you  might 
as  well  save  yourself  the  journey  to-night." 

"  You  don't  know  me,  Azrael.  I  shall  go  there 
to  preach,  dance  or  no  dance.  It's  God's  provi- 
dence that  '11  bring  so  many  more  than  usual  to 
hear  me.  Those  that  come  to  dance  may  stay  to 
pray." 

His  look  was  steel  now,  and  the  long,  firm  mouth 
closed  like  a  vise. 

"  Enoch,  please,  please  don't  go,"  begged  Sararose, 
her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  "  I'm  afraid  there'll  be 
trouble." 

"  How  about  you  ?"  he  asked,  keenly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  faltered. 

"You  going?" 

"  I — I  must  go — to  the  dance,  Enoch.  I've  prom- 
ised Tyke." 

47 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

Enoch  brought  his  fist  down  upon  the  table  so  that 
the  empty  dishes  rattled. 

"  As  surely  as  you  go  to  dance,  I  go  to  preach." 

Sararose  was  crowding  back  the  sobs,  as  she 
poured  a  kettle  full  of  boiling  water  into  her  dish- 
pan.  Enoch  had  come  near  and  was  watching  her, 
tenderly  now,  his  eyes  a  little  misted  as  he  saw  her 
chin  quivering.  Yet  she  would  not  say  what  she 
knew  he  yearned  to  have  her,  that  she  would  go  with 
him  to  the  meeting  and  refuse  to  dance  with  Tyke 
Loiseau. 

"  A  promise  is  a  promise,"  she  kept  thinking  to 
herself.  How  much  more  agreeable,  anyway,  to  be 
whirled  about  in  Tyke's  strong  arms  to  the  merry  fid- 
dle music  than  to  share  a  hymn  book  with  a  muffy 
old  woman  and  drone  out  "Hallelujah,  'tis  dohun; 
I  believe  in  the  Sohun." 

Enoch  moved  away  from  her  again  and  walked 
restlessly  up  and  down  in  the  front  room.  She  could 
see  him  running  his  fingers  through  his  shaggy  hair, 
and  his  lips  were  moving.  Was  he  praying  or  only 
thinking  of  himself  ? 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Azzy  ?"  she  whis- 
pered. 

The  young  fellow  had  taken  a  towel,  and  was  dry- 
ing the  plates. 

"  There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay,  for  Hartle's  head  and 
front  at  the  dances  —  and  since  that  row  in  the 
woods — "  Azrael  whistled. 

"  Oh,  dear !"  Sararose  sank  down  in  the  kitchen 
rocker  and  burst  out  crying. 

How  peaceful  and  happy  everything  had  been  in 
the  early  morning,  and  now  there  was  this  dreadful 
cloud  on  her  horizon.  She  knew  she  was  disloyal, 

48 


Sararose 

but  she  did  wish  she  hadn't  a  lay  preacher  for  a 
brother. 

Enoch  was  kneeling  by  her  side  now  and  put  his 
arms  about  her. 

"  There,  there,  little  sister,"  he  said,  smoothing  her 
hair  as  he  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  wouldn't 
hurt  you  for  the  world,  dearest.  I  didn't  mean  to 
speak  so  harshly.  I  love  you.  I  love  you." 

He  laid  his  cheek  against  hers  in  silence,  while 
Daddy  crooned  cheerfully  over  his  pink  tissue  redin- 
gote. 

"  You  may  stay  where  you  please  to-night.  Don't 
go  out  at  all.  I'd  rather  think  of  you  as  quietly  at 
home  with  father." 

Enoch  anticipated  some  rough  opposition  at  the 
hall,  and  was  unwilling  that  Sararose  should  even  be 
spectator.  As  she  did  not  answer,  he  spoke  again. 

"  You  will  stay  at  home  for  my  sake,  dearest  ?" 

Sararose  was  never  the  soft  little  thing  that  one 
naturally  supposed  her.  Enoch  took  his  arm  away 
from  her  and  stood  up. 

"  Sararose,"  he  spoke  autocratically,  "  answer 
me!" 

She  hardened  as  she  felt  his  will  assert  itself  over 
her.  She  stood  up,  too,  calm  after  her  crying,  and 
the  steely  look  in  his  eyes  made  her  more  determined. 

"  I  shall  keep  my  promise,  Enoch,"  she  said,  her 
cold  little  hands  tight  clenched  at  her  sides,  "  and  go 
to — to  the  dance  with  Tyke  Loiseau." 

Azzy  had  finished  the  dishes,  and  hung  up  the  pan 
to  dry  above  the  stove.  He  had  witnessed  such  scenes 
before,  and  knew  that  intervention  was  futile. 

"  Then,"  said  Enoch,  in  a  tone  like  blue  ice,  "  I 
forbid  you." 

D  49 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

He  had  swiftly  reasoned  out  to  himself  the  state 
of  mind  on  Sararose's  part,  whimsical,  wavering,  un- 
certain, that  needed  but  this  assumption  of  firmness 
from  him  to  save  her  from  herself.  That  dancing 
was  wrong,  that  under  these  particular  circumstances 
it  savored  even  of  irreverence,  he  was  certain.  Sara- 
rose's  lips  quivered. 

"  Enoch,"  she  cried,  and  sank  down  on  her  knees 
against  the  table,  wildly  crying. 

Then  Daddy  arose,  letting  the  scissors  fall  from 
his  knees. 

"  You  shall  go,  Sararose,"  he  thrilled,  but  with  a 
tone  of  authority.  "  Enoch,  who  are  you  to  set  your- 
self up  over  my  daughter  and  her  comings  and  go- 
ings ?" 

Somehow  the  old  man  had  felt  that  this  austere 
son  did  not  belong  to  him. 

"  Daughter,  you  may  go  and  dance  all  ye  please 
and  enjoy  yourself.  Nobody  shall  say  ye  nay." 

Daddy's  unusual  dignity  made  its  impression. 

"  May  I,  Enoch  ?"  asked  Sararose,  raising  her  tear- 
stained  face  from  the  table. 

"  You  may  do  as  your  father  wishes,"  he  answered, 
without  looking  at  her. 

Seizing  his  hat,  he  strode  out  of  the  house. 


WHERE  the  Elder  River  road  cuts  in  across  the 
Loon  Lake  road  is  Spriggs's  store.  Here  one  may  buy 
postage  -  stamps,  series  of  ten  years  before,  calicoes 
in  patterns  favored  by  the  last  generation,  and  choco- 
late rats,  date  unknown.  The  store  is  the  dignified 
feature  that  makes  of  the  scattered  houses  within 
four  miles  a  unit  and  graces  them,  collectively,  with 
the  name  of  Spriggs's  Corners.  Above  the  store  is  a 
large  attic,  used  in  turn  for  political  primaries,  meet- 
ing-house, and  dance-hall.  Every  one  of  these  pur- 
poses is  provocative  of  a  fight,  as  aftermath,  a  fight 
being  the  chief  social  relaxation  of  the  "  mountain." 

In  the  great  unsealed  attic,  the  light  flared  dusk- 
ily through  lanterns  hung  from  the  rafters.  Seed- 
corn,  strung  up  to  dry,  grinned  uncannily  among 
the  cobwebs  of  the  eaves. 

"  It  amaounts  to  jest  this,"  said  Joe  Hartle,  in 
a  rasping  voice.  "  Is  you  or  me  master  up  here  ? 
and  I  reckon  we've  got  to  settle  it  somehaow." 

Zuba  Spriggs,  who  had  been  pacing  up  and  down 
the  floor,  scattering  the  white  soap  behind  her  in 
flakes,  stood  with  her  full  bare  arm  still  upraised, 
like  Demeter  arrested  at  seed-time.  Her  cotton  dress, 
tucked  up  about  her  waist  in  Greuze  loops,  had  faded 

51 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

from  turkey  red  to  a  delicious  cerise.  The  blowsy 
red  of  her  cheeks  and  the  red  lantern  light  on  her  hair 
made  her  a  magnificent  study  in  color. 

"  God  is  master  here  to-night,  Joe,"  said  Enoch 
Holme,  in  his  great  open-air  voice,  "  not  you,  nor 
I,  nor  any  other  man." 

The  two  parties  stood  ranged  against  each  other, 
Enoch,  the  mountain  preacher,  six  feet  two  in  his 
stocking  feet,  and  his  two  brothers,  Ab  and  Azzy. 
Ab,  big  and  brawny,  with  long  Mexican  mustaches 
and  loosely-smiling  mouth,  ponderous  in  his  move- 
ments as  in  his  mirth,  habitually  disinclined  to  wrath 
as  a  waste  of  energy,  but,  when  called  upon  to  ex"ert 
himself,  a  centre  rush  that  would  have  made  a  foot- 
ball team  memorable.  Azzy  was  only  a  feather- 
weight, but  agile  and  trim,  and,  as  the  boys  would 
have  expressed  it,  "  fit  as  a  fiddle." 

With  his  hand  on  the  melodeon,  which  he  had 
been  in  the  act  of  moving,  stood  Joe  Hartle,  long  and 
lanky,  his  bleached  mustache  white  against  his  burn- 
ed face,  with  a  reach  to  his  arms  that  would  have 
equalled  Briareus,  and  a  command  of  invective  almost 
as  comprehensive.  Since  the  trouble  at  the  winter 
camp  he  had  been  Enoch's  bitter  enemy.  Near  him 
was  Eddie,  store-keeper  of  Elk  Mountain,  the  gay 
Lothario  of  the  neighborhood,  and  reputed  a  boxer 
of  prowess.  He  was  short  and  thick-set,  with  a  know- 
ing air  to  the  very  cut  of  his  chin-whiskers  and  the 
swing  of  his  arms.  His  mere  entrance  into  a  room 
was  a  witticism,  and  his  first  word  would  arouse  a 
titter  of  laughter. 

Zuba  Spriggs  and  Nance  Hartle,  retired  into  the 
fortresses  of  the  eaves,  sat  on  a  hogshead  together  in 
awed  anticipation  of  the  blow-out. 

52 


A    Sermon    and  a   Dance 

u  Hold  on,  boys,"  said  Spriggs's  nasal  voice. 

The  little  store-keeper,  yellow  and  wrinkled  as  a 
yesterday's  slapjack,  peered  between  the  shoulders  of 
the  Holme  brothers.  The  loud  altercation  had  aroused 
him  from  his  slumber  behind  the  counter. 

"  You  kin  blame  it  all  on  me,"  he  went  on,  pa- 
cifically. "  I  promised  the  hall  to  Enoch  for  his  re- 
vivals every  night  this  week,  so  he  ain't  tryin'  fer 
to  make  trouble.  And  I  clean  forgot  that  'twas  prom- 
ised a  month  back  to  youse  for  yer  dance.  They 
ast  it  from  me  a  good  bit  back,  Enoch." 

He  appealed  to  Enoch  as  the  pious  man  of  the 
crowd.  Enoch  seemed  about  to  answer,  but  a  sound 
on  the  stair  arrested  his  attention. 

"  No,  no,  I  won't  come  up  now ;  it's  so  early,"  said 
Sararose's  voice.  "  Please,  I'll  stay  here  awhile 
and  visit  with  Mrs.  Spriggs.  The  girls  has  to  come 
down  and  dress  yet." 

If  Enoch  had  been  before  in  a  mood  to  be  pla- 
cated, he  did  not  look  so  now,  for  the  long  mouth 
was  drawn  to  a  line,  and  his  face  was  immovable. 

Sararose's  sweet,  clear  tones  were  followed  by  Loi- 
seau's  less  distinguishable  bass,  and  Enoch  set  his 
teeth  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  don't  say  whose  fault  it  is,  Mr.  Spriggs,  but 
it  '11  be  my  fault  if  I  don't  do  my  duty  in  this  hall 
to-night." 

"  And  your  duty  is  to  go  about  your  business, 
you  bull-voiced,  cantin'  exhorter,  you!"  roared  Joe 
Hartle,  shaking  his  fist  in  Enoch's  face  with  the  un- 
necessary vehemence  of  one  who  trembles  for  his 
cause. 

"  Don't  youse  go  to  fight  it  aout,  boys.  It  wouldn't 
be  seemly,  nohow.  Blame  it  on  me." 

53 


The  Strength  of  the    Hills 

"  Blamin'  ain't  going  to  settle  the  mux,"  cried 
Loiseau,  savagely,  pushing  into  the  room,  "  but  some- 
thin'  a  blamed  sight  better  nor  blamin'.  Dance  we 
was  goin'  to  in  this  hall  to-night,  and  dance  we  wull !" 

His  voice  rang  like  an  anvil  on  iron,  and  the 
two  girls  on  the  hogshead  clasped  each  other  appre- 
hensively. Joe's  coat  was  already  off,  but  he  soon 
stripped  himself  of  his  vest  also.  His  faded  flannel 
shirt  displayed  an  Adam's  apple  large  as  an  egg. 

"  Come  on !"  he  shouted.  "  I'll  fight  either  on 
ye  single  and  Azzy  thrown  in." 

Enoch  stepped  forward  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Naow  don't,  boys,"  pleaded  Spriggs,  plaintive 
as  an  accordion. 

"  'Tain't  none  of  your  consairn,  Spriggs,"  said 
Loiseau,  scornfully.  "  Ye  hain't  no  more  good  with 
them  two  than  a  picked  chicken  in  a  cock-fight." 

But  Enoch  stood  with  his  arms  folded  as  Joe  hur- 
tled forward. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  ye  ?  Ain't  we  goin'  to 
fight  fer  it  ?  Have  ye  guv  in  already  ?" 

"  I'm  not  here  to  fight,  but  to  preach,"  he  replied, 
calmly. 

"  Ye  don't  say  so  ?"  came  Eddie's  retort,  in  his 
mutton-tallow  voice. 

"  He'll  preach  to  the  tune  of  the  fiddlin',"  whisper- 
ed Nance  Hartle. 

"  And  we're  here  to  dance.  How's  that  ?"  replied 
Loiseau,  with  undisguised  irony. 

"  I  don't  deny  you  the  right  to  dance,"  said  Enoch. 
"  And  you  don't  deny  me  the  right  to  preach.  Is 
that  f ah-  ?" 

"  Sure,"  sneered  Eddie.  "  The  lancers  begins  at 
eight.  Ye  kin  hev  your  service  afore  that." 

54 


A   Sermon   and   a   Dance 

u  And  after,  too,  if  you  all  agree,"  answered  Enoch, 
smoothly.  "  When  your  friends  arrive,  and  mine, 
we'll  put  the  question  to  them,  and  you'll  take  their 
say-so,  eh,  Joe  Hartle,  and  you,  Loiseau  ?" 

Enoch  glanced  around  the  circle  of  his  opponents 
with  ominous  serenity.  They  all  burst  into  laughter. 

"  It's  ten  to  one  against  the  preacher,"  remarked 
Eddie,  sotto  voce. 

"  Agreed,"  cried  Joe  Hartle.  "  Whatever  the  big- 
gest part  of  them  wants  we'll  give  them,  and  there's 
an  end  to  't." 

"  No,  sir,"  Enoch's  voice  was  unrelenting.  "  If 
there's  one  poor  soul  that  would  rather  dance,  I'll 
quit  preaching  and  go  home." 

Loiseau  dropped  a  mock  courtesy,  plucking  at  the 
air  on  each  side  of  him  like  a  girl  holding  up  her 
skirts.  He  had  the  suppleness  of  a  French  dancing- 
master. 

"  Exhortin'  versus  the  polka,"  he  laughed.  "  I 
bet  that  we  dance  to  hell  for  all  ye,  Enoch  Holme. 
Why,  the  hull  mounting-side  is  comin'  to  our  dance, 
and  thar  ain't  nobody  but  a  parcel  of  women-folks 
and  deef  old  men  that  comes  to  your  revivals." 

"  Except  such  of  his  own  folks  as  he  leads  by  the 
string,"  finished  Eddie,  in  his  woolliest  voice,  but  a 
sudden  right-hander  from  Azzy  sent  him  spinning 
against  the  wall  and  gasping  for  breath. 

"  You — you — you —  '  he  struggled  ineffectually, 
making  for  Azzy  with  a  threatening  gesture. 

Enoch  stepped  in  between  them. 

"  There,  there,"  he  said,  quite  as  if  he  were  sooth- 
ing two  turbulent  children,  and  Eddie  retired,  a  little 
too  speedily  for  honor,  but  none  too  soon  to  escape 
Azzy's  imminent  punishment. 

55 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

The  Holme  brothers,  except  Enoch,  were  wild 
enough  fellows  in  their  way,  but  when  the  honor  of 
any  one  of  them  was  to  uphold,  loyalty  was  the  watch- 
word of  the  clan.  The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil 
set  blithely  about  their  work  once  more  while  the 
Holme  trio  stationed  themselves  by  the  door.  Enoch 
took  out  his  pocket  Testament  and  read. 

"  Lemme  go  there,  you,  Eddie,"  came  Nance  Har- 
tle's  thin  voice.  "  Don't  you  be  feooling  raound  laike 
all  possessed." 

She  gave  him  a  little,  ineffective  push. 

"  I  wasn't  agoin'  to  hurt  ye,  Nance." 

"  You  fellers  jest  git  that  melodium  into  place." 
Zuba's  round  voice  matched  her  arms  in  girth  and 
decision.  "  Kint  you  see  it's  hint  side  afore  ?" 

"  Come  on,  Tyke,"  called  Joe.  "  Them's  orders. 
She's  boss  in  here  all  right,  I  guess." 

Glances  were  cast  now  and  then  at  the  grim  trio 
by  the  door.  There  was  something  sinister  in  their 
silence,  like  the  death's-head  at  the  feast.  The  peo- 
ple began  to  stream  into  the  dimly  lighted  attic,  sin- 
gly, by  twos,  and  in  bunches.  The  godly  and  un- 
godly found  themselves  side  by  side  and  participants 
in  what  promised  to  be  a  notable  occasion.  Enoch, 
with  a  hand-grasp  and  a  word  of  reassurance,  wel- 
comed his  own  people.  The  function  at  Spriggs's 
Corners,  as  a  rule,  began  with  perspiring  and  sticky 
silence,  and  ended  with  boisterous  horse-play.  This 
evening  there  was  a  subdued  murmur  from  the  seats 
that  lined  the  room,  and  a  lively  buzz  from  among 
the  hogsheads  and  packing-boxes,  where  the  gayest 
of  the  maidens  were  disposing  of  their  wraps.  It  was 
a  warm  night  in  July,  warm  for  the  mountains,  and 
the  girls  were  decked  out  in  muslins  and  dimities, 

56 


A   Sermon   and   a   Dance 

while  some  few  of  the  more  modish  among  them 
wore  ready-made  shirt-waists  and  black  skirts,  a  start- 
ling innovation  in  Elk  Mountain,  where  fashions  are 
modified  loathly. 

It  was  a  rough  and  simple  community,  descended 
from  the  miners  of  thirty  years  before.  The  mining 
had  long  been  abandoned,  and  the  rude  prosperity  ac- 
companying it  had  likewise  slipped  away.  Here  and 
there,  on  the  shores  of  lonely  lakes,  or  by  some  foam- 
ing river,  were  deserted  villages,  mere  cobwebs  of 
time,  clinging  to  the  hill-side.  The  miners'  descend- 
ants, those  not  possessing  the  energy  or  the  means 
to  move  away,  still  clung  to  the  soil  and,  intricately 
intermarried  within  the  difficult  limits  of  range, 
eked  out  a  penurious  livelihood.  The  unintelligible 
gayety  of  summer  campers,  secluded  by  Lake  Mi- 
quewauga,  at  the  foot  of  Elk  Mountain,  was  the  only 
glimpse  they  had  of  the  outside  world,  a  world  they 
regarded  with  mingled  indifference  and  scorn. 

"  Sararose !"  exclaimed  Enoch,  as  a  slight  figure 
in  green  muslin  stood  at  the  top  of  the  crooked  stairs. 

Her  head,  with  its  burden  of  copper-red  braids, 
drooped  like  a  hot-house  rose  on  its  stem.  Her  skin 
had  the  alabaster  whiteness  that  sometimes  goes  with 
her  shade  of  hair. 

"  So  you  have  come  to — to  the  dance,  I  suppose." 
He  held  her  little  slender  hand  in  his  brotherly  grasp. 

The  pink  color  mantled  her  whiteness  as  she  trem- 
bled out  a  "  Yes." 

"  But  you  will  stay  to  hear  me  preach,  Sararose  ?" 
He  dropped  her  hand,  but  looked  at  her  with  a  sort 
of  unearthly  pity.  His  hard  and  tender  moods  fol- 
lowed each  other  like  sun  and  shower  across  the 
peaks. 

57 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

She  laughed  a  little,  hanging  her  head. 

"  Don't  be  a  lost  lamb,  Sararose."  The  words  had 
no  sound  of  cant  from  his  lips.  The  colloquy  was  cut 
short  by  Loiseau,  who  appeared  at  Sararose's  side, 
and,  brusquely  seizing  her  hand,  said : 

"  Come,  Sararose,  we  want  you  for  our  set.  It's 
jest  formin'." 

The  girl  held  back  for  a  moment,  looking  plead- 
ingly at  her  brother.  But  he  had  turned  away  and 
was  talking  to  a  woman  in  a  black  scuttle  bonnet  tied 
with  magenta  ribbon.  She  was  one  of  the  pillars  of 
the  revival  meetings.  The  walls  were  lined  with  their 
complement  of  early-comers,  and  irregular  groups 
were  standing  or  sitting  about  the  room.  Loiseau 
and  llartle  had  resolved  upon  a  master-stroke.  Loi- 
seau stepped  upon  the  platform  and  clapped  his 
hands. 

"  Friends  and  neighbors,  it's  eight  o'clock,  an'  the 
fiddlers  ain't  come ;  so  we  hev  another  treat  for  ye. 
Holme's  invited  himself  here  with  some  of  his 
prayer-meetin'  folks,  an'  he's  goin'  to  exhort.  Step 
up,  brother.  Ye'll  find  the  sheep  on  yer  right  hand 
and  the  goats  on  yer  left." 

A  loud  guffaw  greeted  this  sally,  for  so  indeed  had 
the  two  parties  ranged  themselves.  Enoch  stood  on 
the  platform,  severe  and  unsmiling,  but  with  that 
steely  light  in  his  eyes  which  meant  battle. 

"  He's  goin'  to  bluff  it,  you  bet,"  whispered  Zuba 
Spriggs.  "  My,  won't  it  be  fun  ?" 

Enoch  knew  every  man  and  woman  before  him. 
There  are  as  many  clans  and  cliques  in  the  Elk  Moun- 
tain range  as  between  the  east  and  west  sides  of  Man- 
hattan Island,  as  many  shades  of  religion  and  of  mor- 
al conviction.  The  most  divergent  of  these  clans 

58 


A   Sermon   and   a   Dance 

were  represented  that  night  at  Spriggs's  Corners. 
Every  man  and  woman  knew  the  preacher.  They 
knew  him  for  a  lumberman  and  hunter,  for  a  fisher- 
man and  farmer.  They  knew  that  he  could  drive  the 
ploughshare  as  straight  as  he  could  expound  a  text. 
The  most  reckless  of  them  did  not  care  to  trifle  with 
him  when  the  steely  gleam  was  in  his  eye.  After 
the  laughter  and  bustle  had  subsided,  he  began: 

"  I'm  here  to  talk  to  you  about  God,  to  let  God 
speak  through  me  to  the  souls  of  you  all." 

His  words  were  borne  down  by  an  avalanche  of 
contemptuous  laughter. 

"  You  jest  keep  yer  mouth  shut,"  said  Loiseau 
to  Eddie,  who  was  about  to  add  his  voice  to  the 
hurly-burly.  "  It's  not  our  time  now.  Give  him 
fair  play,  and  let  him  show  his  hand." 

"  Good,"  answered  Hartle.  "  It  '11  be  a  bitter  pill 
fer  him  to  swallow,  anyway  we  fix  it.  Gosh !  what 
a  blamed  fool  Enoch  be!" 

The  laughter  had  died  down,  and  Enoch,  standing 
like  a  rock  from  which  the  tide  had  subsided,  spoke 
again : 

"  You  can  laugh  if  you  will,  but  it  isn't  the 
laugh  that  comes  from  the  full  heart  you're  laugh- 
ing. It's  the  rattling  of  the  hollow  pod.  But  I  shall 
say  something  to  you  that  will  not  cause  laughter." 

The  terrific  solemnity  of  the  man  hushed  them  to 
expectancy. 

"If  a  single  man  or  woman  of  you  opens  his 
lips  in  laughter,  I  promise  to  keep  silence  forever." 

If  Enoch  had  understood  his  own  psychology,  he 
would  have  known  he  was  gambling,  and  against 
heavy  odds,  but  the  fierceness  of  his  own  will  intox- 
icated him  like  the  fumes  of  the  Pythoness.  He  fixed 

59 


The  Strength    of  the    Hills 

his  eyes  on  his  auditors  as  a  jungle  hunter  on  hi^ 
prey.  Sararose's  sea-pool  look  swam  with  dread. 
Enoch  lifted  both  hands  in  a  gesture  ponderous  and 
pregnant. 

"  If  God  came  down  from  heaven  and  stood  among 
you,  you  would  listen  to  Him.  He  is  standing  here. 
Listen  to  Him." 

With  hands  still  upraised,  as  if  commanding  si- 
lence, he  appeared  to  listen.  A  tremendous  roll  of 
thunder  broke  among  the  hills.  Half  of  the  assem- 
blage shivered. 

"  And  the  fool  saith  in  his  heart,  '  There  is  no 
God/ ' 

Not  a  sound  thereafter  disturbed  the  stillness. 
Enoch  went  on  to  expound  the  idea  of  divinity.  Not 
theological,  not  even  Scriptural,  was  his  exposition. 
The  reality  of  God  he  flashed  before  his  hearers  like 
a  picture  on  a  sheet.  Hartle  and  Loiseau,  watch- 
ing the  audience,  were  silent  too.  The  very  confi- 
dence of  the  man  stupefied  them. 

It  was  a  sermon  never  written  out,  and  if  here 
set  down  it  would  read  like  many  others.  But  it 
was  the  winnowed  wheat  of  many  a  day's  threshing ; 
many  springs  behind  the  plough  in  the  stony  corn- 
fields, many  winters  with  the  axe  in  the  lonely  timber- 
lands,  many  summers  with  the  scythe  on  the  breezy 
meadows,  were  expressed  into  the  essence  of  his 
thought.  Often,  as  Enoch  rode  his  horse  home  from 
far-away  villages,  God  had  seemed  to  walk  beside 
him  in  the  starry  darkness ;  God  had  sung  like  a  bird 
at  dawning  when  the  clouds  tossed  beneath  him  in 
the  valley  and  Mount  Marcy  sprang  into  the  fire  of 
sunrise.  A  theologian  would  have  said  that  he  taught 
the  Divine  Immanence.  A  Greek  would  have  called 

60 


A  Sermon   and  a   Dance 

it  Pantheism.  The  thought  was  as  crystal  from  his 
lips  as  a  spring  from  Elk  Mountain.  The  people 
were  fascinated,  awed. 

This,  then,  was  Enoch's  God,  not  Jehovah  of  the 
Prophets,  nor  the  great,  white  Presence  of  Revelation, 
but  a  sort  of  vast,  glorified  man,  who  lived  and  moved 
among  them,  trod  their  smoking  plough-lands,  lifted 
the  clouds  for  them  in  the  early  morning,  and  fell 
with  the  dew  at  night.  A  God  who  fashioned  the 
twin-flower  with  delicate  care  and  rejoiced  in  the 
wood  -  sorrel  that  reddened  the  forest-trails.  "  He 
knows  the  haunts  of  the  deer  by  the  lakes.  He  is 
acquainted  better  than  you  with  seed-time  and  har- 
vest. His  are  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills." 

Women  with  toil-hardened  faces  bent  forward,  lost 
in  the  idea  of  God.  Young  girls  with  parted  lips 
gazed  like  persons  in  a  trance.  A  personality  that 
before  had  seemed  as  vague  as  the  Khan  of  Tartary 
filled  the  room.  Each  one  was  alone  with  God,  while 
Enoch's  voice  seemed  a  window  behind  which  eter- 
nity lay.  They  did  not  even  hear  the  storm  that 
had  come  up,  though  the  wind  and  rain  beat  against 
the  little  windows  and  slammed  upon  the  roof.  The 
fiddlers  had  crept  quietly  in  and  sat  unnoticed  by 
the  door,  their  unused  violins  across  their  knees. 

"  And  now,  friends,  good-night.  Those  who  are 
dancers  will  stay  and  dance.  Those  who  fear  God 
will  go  home  to  bed  and  prepare  for  the  Sabbath 
that  God  sends  them." 

Enoch  stepped  down  from  the  platform  and  went 
quietly  towards  the  door.  He  was  followed  by  his 
own  people  and  some  others,  all  in  nervous  silence. 

"  This  ain't  no  funeral,"  shouted  Loiseau.  "  Fid- 
dlers, strike  up!" 

61 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

The  violins  began  to  squeak,  the  spell  was  broken. 
People  began  to  talk  and  move  about.  Sararose,  with 
her  shawl  and  hat  on,  was  moving  timidly  towards 
the  door,  but  Loiseau  was  upon  her  like  a  hawk  on 
a  dove. 

"  Sararose,  you  ain't  goin'  home  'thout  givin'  me 
one  single  dance?  'Tain't  late.  There's  heaps  of 
time  yet.  Stay,  I  tell  you,  Sararose ;  ye  don't  know 
how  much  I  want  you,"  he  stormed,  pleaded,  com- 
manded, all  in  one  breath. 

"  Oh,  Tyke,  I  just  can't  stay  and  dance.  I  can't 
do  it  no  more'n  nohow,  after  that." 

She  shivered,  and  lifted  her  transparent,  long-lash- 
ed eyes  appealingly  to  the  black  ones  bent  above  her. 

Her  brother's  large  figure  stood  back  to  her,  but 
he  heard  every  word  by  the  two,  and  waited.  Ab  and 
Azzy  had  gone  down-stairs  to  hitch  the  team. 

"  You've  jest  got  to  stay  this  time,  Sararose,  fer 
me.  Jest  a  few  minutes,  an'  I'll  take  you  home." 

Loiseau  had  her  by  the  hand,  and  was  drawing  her 
with  him  towards  the  centre  of  the  room.  Enoch 
came  back  from  the  stairs  and  put  his  hand  gently 
upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Which,  Sararose— him  or  God  ?" 

There  was  something  in  the  question  that  stung 
Sararose  to  decision.  Till  then  she  had  been  yearn- 
ing for  Enoch's  strong  arms  about  her  and  for  his 
loving  approval.  But  it  was  not  the  decision  that 
he  strove  to  impose.  Perhaps  the  too  frequent  al- 
ternative that  Enoch  offered  her  between  his  own 
will  and  God  on  the  one  hand,  and  her  wishes  on  the 
other,  offended  by  its  arrogance. 

"  You,  Tyke,"  she  answered,  recklessly. 

Enoch,  saddened  more  than  angry,  passed  in  silence 
62 


A   Sermon   and   a   Dance 

out  of  the  room.  It  cut  him  to  the  heart  that  the 
one  he  loved  best  in  the  world  was  unmoved  by  his  in- 
fluence ;  also  his  pride  was  hurt.  Sararose  threw  her- 
self into  the  gayety  of  the  evening.  Her  transparent 
cheeks  took  on  the  most  vivid  color,  and  her  gor- 
geous hair,  loosened  in  lustrous  folds,  slipped  down- 
ward, and  bourgeoned  out  like  an  overblown  Jacque- 
minot rose.  It  was  thus  that  Richard  Hollister  saw 
her  when  he  and  John  Holme  arrived  at  Spriggs's. 
Young  Hollister,  anxious  to  see  a  "  mountain  shin- 
dig," had  induced  his  guide  to  be  cicerone  for  the 
occasion. 

("  Tiddle-dee-tee,"  sang  the  fiddles.  "  Swing  yer 
partners.") 

Hollister  had  both  arms  around  Sararose,  and  wras 
giving  her  the  swing  "  approved  "  at  Spriggs's,  a 
dizzying  affair  of  several  minutes.  Her  eyes  glowed 
like  chrysoprase,  and  her  flushed  cheek  lay  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  You  will  give  me  the  next  dance,  Miss  Holme  ?" 
whispered  Hollister  in  her  ear. 

"  It's  a  schottische.  I  don't  know  how,"  she  whis- 
pered back. 

(Grand  right  and  left.) 

"  I'll  teach  you,"  he  answered,  as  they  passed, 
weaving  in  and  out  with  hand-clasps.  How  soft  and 
strong  his  hand  was ! 

"  I  must  go  home.  I  told  Tyke  I  was  going  two 
dances  ago." 

"  Who  is  Tyke  ?  That  gay  deceiver  with  the  inky 
eyebrows  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  talk  so  if  he  tries  to 
take  you  from  me  ?  Think  how  many  dances  you've 
danced  with  him,  and  only  two  with  me.  That's  dif- 
ferent, is  it  ?  You've  known  him  always.  Then  you 

63 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

must  let  me  make  up  for  lost  time.    You  will  ?    Look 
at  me  just  once,  then." 

Sararose's  blossomy  head  drooped  still  lower,  and 
her  cheeks  paled,  llollister  was  leading  her  to  a 
seat,  with  his  arms  about  her,  also  in  "  approved  " 
mountain  style. 

"  Sararose  they  call  you  ?  By  Jove,  you  are  a 
rose,  though.  Do  you  write  it  all  as  one  ?  That's 
a  way  they  have  up  here,  is  it  ?  I  declare,  I  like  it. 
Write  it  down  for  me,  and  let  me  see  how  it  looks. 
Now  you  must  tell  me  where  you  live.  I  shall  be 
coming  to  see  you,  you  know." 

Sararose  raised  her  bright-lashed  eyes  for  a  liquid 
look  at  the  young  man.  He  was  handsomer  than  any 
one  she  had  ever  seen.  He  had  brimming-over  brown 
eyes,  and  thick  hair  smoothly  parted  in  the  middle, 
but  waving  crisply  at  the  edges  around  his  neck, 
temples,  and  ears.  His  full,  fluty  lips  were  smiling, 
and  there  was  a  deep  dent  in  the  middle  of  his  chin. 

"  Do  you  look  at  every  man  like  that,  Sararose  ? 
As  I  live,  there  must  be  broken  hearts  around 
Spriggs's  Corners.  Promise  to  save  that  look  for  me, 
Sararose,  or  I  shall  be  jealous.  There,  that's  our 
schottische." 

( Tum-tee-tee-tum. ) 

The  chatter  ceased.  The  feet  shuffled  and  slid. 
The  violins  were  warmed  up  to  their  work,  and 
thrilled  the  dancers  with  voluptuous  inspiration. 

"  That's  it — three  slides  this  way.  Now  we  waltz. 
What  a  sweet  red  rose  she  is !" 

He  folded  her  in  for  the  tantalizing  interludes. 
The  smoky  lanterns,  the  grinning  corn,  the  rough 
rafters  disappeared.  Sararose's  soul  melted  into 
motion. 

64 


CHAPTER  VI 
Storm  and  Clearing 

LOON  LAKE  has  a  hotel,  large,  white-painted,  many- 
galleried.  Nurse-maids,  with  starched  and  curled  in- 
fants in  train,  loiter  along  the  ash-walks  between  ge- 
ranium-beds, and  very  young  men  in  plaid  breeches 
follow  the  golf  links  all  day  in  white-eyed  silence. 
Frizzled  ladies,  with  jetted  bosoms  and  steep  laps, 
fan  themselves  on  an  upper  piazza,  overlooking  the 
lake.  Glossy  and  prosperous  men,  fastidiously  sports- 
manlike, pass  in  and  out  of  the  hotel  office  with  guns 
and  rods,  always  in  the  wake  of  a  native  guide,  satur- 
ninely  grim.  But  with  the  hotel  acres,  kitchen  gar- 
den on  the  one  hand,  and  scrubby  orchard  and  past- 
ures on  the  other,  the  work  of  the  axe  has  ended. 
The  bush  begins.  A  few  ragged  farms  struggle  in 
the  fringes  of  the  timbered  mountain-side. 

Alison  MacDonald  and  June  Hollister  had  been 
spending  the  day  at  Loon  Lake,  and  at  about  seven 
o'clock  they  left  the  hotel  in  a  covered  buckboard 
driven  by  Gene  Lawless,  who  filled  in  his  summer 
time  as  one  of  the  hotel  drivers. 

Between  Elk  Mountain,  at  the  foot  of  which  is  Lake 
Miquewauga,  and  Loon  Lake  the  distance  has  never 
been  accurately  determined.  It  is  anywhere  from  six- 
teen to  twenty  miles,  according  to  the  disposition  and 
E  65 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

temper  of  the  mountaineer  inquired  of.  There  are 
three  halting-places  on  the  way — Spriggs's  Corners, 
Windy  Flanders,  and  Lone  Falls — and  except  these 
three  no  other  nuclei  of  human  habitation.  The  road 
is  considered  by  summer  visitors  the  most  pict- 
uresque, and  by  natives  the  peskiest,  on  the  range. 
The  hills  spring  sheerly  from  under  the  carriage 
wheels,  or  slope  graciously  towards  the  horizon,  as 
the  defile  grows  wider  or  narrower.  Oaks,  sugar-ma- 
ples, mountain-alders,  and  elderberry  bushes  cast  by 
day  a  deep  shade  over  the  narrow  road.  Rough 
bridges  span  the  occasional  ravines,  down  which  the 
runaway  children  of  the  mountain-springs  fret  their 
hearts  out  over  stones  and  eddies. 

A  full  moon  was  in  promise,  and  both  girls  looked 
forward  with  zest  to  the  long  drive,  especially  Ali- 
son, who  had  a  poet's  love  of  lonely  beauty. 

Allowing  ample  time  for  all  the  difficulties  of  the 
route,  hills,  newly  broken  roads,  mended  roads — 
the  mountain  method  of  road-mending  is  a  titanic 
play  with  loose  bowlders  —  they  had  calculated  to 
reach  the  camp  by  ten  o'clock.  They  did  not  suc- 
ceed in  eliciting  much  information  from  the  driver, 
who,  with  the  customary  reticence  of  a  north  moun- 
taineer, was  as  obstinately  dumb  concerning  local 
color  and  tradition  as  an  author  guarding  the  pre- 
serves of  a  new  book. 

"  Look  at  that  maple  on  the  hill-side.  What  a 
barbaric  splash  of  color !"  exclaimed  Alison. 

"  It's  decayin',  thet's  what,"  Gene  explained,  with 
dry  scorn.  "  Pesky  things  them  soft  maples  is  to 
raise." 

"  How  the  scene  unrolls  before  one,"  Alison  mur- 
mured half  to  herself,  her  mimetic,  unconscious  fin- 

66 


Storm    and    Clearing 

gers  signifying  a  scroll  unwinding.  They  made  a 
turn  in  the  road  that  brought  a  new  group  of  moun- 
tain scallops  into  view.  "It  is  almost  irreverence 
to  pass  through  so  quickly." 

"  We  won't  be  goin'  none  too  quick  fer  ye  a  spell 
further  on,"  Gene  responded.  It  was  characteris- 
tic of  him  to  show  reticence  when  addressed,  and  lo- 
quacity otherwise.  "  We're  comin'  to  the  darndest 
hill  on  the  hull  range,  and  these  horses  don't  road 
none  too  well." 

They  drove  in  silence  for  some  time,  Alison's 
thoughts  very  far  in  the  future,  as  a  girl's  thoughts 
are  wont  to  be,  dwelling  on  the  delights  of  many 
things,  when  Richard  and  she  would  be  husband  and 
wife.  She  had  known  him  since  they  were  children 
together,  in  houses  that  faced  each  other  on  one  of 
New  York's  older  streets.  Colonel  Hollister  and  Mr. 
MacDonald  had  been  through  the  war  together,  and 
afterwards  through  the  ups  and  downs  of  financial 
ventures,  with  never  a  break  in  their  friendship,  and 
the  three  children — Alison  MacDonald  and  Richard 
and  June  Hollister  —  were  so  inseparable  that  the 
other  children  on  the  square  called  them  the  "Bunch." 
Even  the  misogynous  age  of  fourteen  Richard  had 
passed  through  unscathed,  still  preferring,  though  se- 
cretly, the  society  of  those  two  girls  to  that  of  his 
coeval  in  sex  and  age.  Then  came  Richard  at  col- 
lege, a  different  Richard  from  the  preceding,  but  to 
Alison  always  the  same.  Alison,  too,  had  her  college 
life — a  brief  one — cut  short  by  the  great  sorrow 
that  left  on  her  face  the  indelible  record  of  experi- 
ence. It  was  not  the  serious  influence  of  a  woman's 
college,  nor  yet  her  graver  temperament,  that  made 
Alison  so  different — for  instance,  from  June  Hol- 

67 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

lister,  who  had  grown  up  with  her.  As  they  sat  to- 
gether in  the  carriage,  he  who  runs  might  have  read 
the  sad  lines  of  Alison's  face  as  contrasted  with  the 
handsome  blankness  of  June's.  The  kind  of  sorrow 
had  come  into  Alison's  life  about  which  people  keep 
silence,  when  silence  is  kindest.  It  had  been  some 
years  since  Alison's  bitter  baptism,  but  the  seal  would 
always  be  on  her  forehead.  Especially  in  repose  one 
noticed  the  enduring  pathos  of  the  dark  almond- 
shaped  eyes.  People  would  ask  upon  seeing  her, 
"  What  has  happened  ?"  and  ever  after  they  would 
pity  her  for  the  story  they  would  learn.  With  her 
friends  Alison  was  cheerful,  though  not  quite  com- 
monplace, but  one  always  felt  the  undertone  in  her 
life.  Instead  of  leaning  on  people  for  pity  and  love, 
she  was  naturally  leaned  upon,  which  was  the  result 
of  her  well-poised  temperament  and  rich  womanli- 
ness. She  was  happier  now  than  she  had  been  for 
three  years.  Time  and  love  will  do  much. 

After  a  while  June  spoke: 

"  Alison,  Thomas  Mayhew  is  coming  up  next  week, 
head  of  Clough  Hall,  you  know,  on  the  east  side. 
He's  the  ugliest  man  I  ever  saw,  speaks  broad  York- 
shire like  a  story-book." 

"  I  know  of  him.  Some  one  told  me  he  was  the 
most  interesting  man  in  New  York,"  Alison  re- 
plied. 

"  Interesting  ?"  June  exclaimed.  "  He's  a  tomb- 
stone— a  whole  cemetery.  Whether  he  talks  or  doesn't 
talk,  you're  no  more  to  him  than  a  worn-out  epitaph. 
Takes  the  bit  in  his  teeth  if  you'd  let  him,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  I  have  to  pull  hard 
to  let  him  know  I'm  there,  sometimes." 

"  June,  June,"  sighed  Alison,  deprecatingly. 
68 


Storm  and   Clearing 

"  But,  oh,  he  is  a  winner,"  June  finished,  helpless 
to  express  her  opinion  by  anything  less  explicit. 

June  Hollister  was  conformed  quite  accurately  to 
the  popular  conception  of  "  summer  girl."  Rather, 
perhaps,  the  summer  girl  as  a  type  has  been  deduced 
from  such  as  she.  Notwithstanding  conversational 
inanity,  she  had  the  classic  brow  of  a  Parthenon  god- 
dess and  the  superb  indifference  of  drooping  lid  and 
the  finely  turned  chin  that  one  associates  with  pen- 
and-ink  illustrations  of  manufactured  witticism.  Ali- 
son, on  the  other  hand,  to  whom,  much  against  her 
will,  all  the  camp  had  naturally  yielded  the  palm  for 
superior  intellect,  had  the  curves  and  dimples  of  a 
Hebe.  Her  black  hair,  instead  of  rippling  in  philo- 
sophical waves  from  a  broad  brow,  crinkled  like  un- 
braided  flax  about  the  peculiar  ovate  of  her  olive 
face.  She  was  a  favorite  subject  for  Dick  Hollister's 
camera,  when  she  sat  in  the  sun  drying  her  tresses, 
which  stood  out  about  her  head  in  a  startled  au- 
reole. 

"  A  regular  circus  Wild  Woman,"  June  would 
teasingly  say,  "  only  you  should  not  have  Dante  in 
your  lap." 

Then  Hollister  would  steal  it  from  her,  dropping 
a  French  doll  in  its  place,  for  there  were  always  chil- 
dren in  camp  with  dolls  to  be  borrowed  for  the  older 
folks'  amusement,  as  Mrs.  Hollister  would  placidly 
remark.  Then  snap  would  go  the  camera,  and  the 
picture  would  be  complete. 

The  delicious  mountain  pinks  of  sunset  faded  into 
lilac  over  the  undulating  ranges;  then  Gene  Law- 
less's  unimaginative  back  was  silhouetted  against  the 
lavender  of  the  dying  light.  With  its  first  white  star, 
the  purple  of  early  evening  lay  over  the  velvet  hills. 

69 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  Do  you  hear  the  whippoorwill  ?"  Alison  mur- 
mured. "  Twilight  translated  to  sound." 

"  Where  is  it  ?    It  seems  so  near." 

"  There's  another  answering.  Listen."  Alison's 
voice  had  a  way  of  melting  into  your  sense  while 
June's  pattered  upon  it  like  a  fountain  on  a  stone. 

The  girls  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  to  hear  the 
plaintive  strophe  and  antistrophe. 

"  You  cain't  never  see  them  birds,"  Gene  remark- 
ed. "  They're  dirt-colored  critters  that  squat  down 
in  the  grass.  I've  hunted  for  them  high  and  low  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  most  laikely  there  was  one  not  two 
feet  from  me." 

Suddenly  turning  a  corner,  they  came  upon 
Spriggs's,  with  the  light  pouring  out  from  the  door 
upon  the  low  platform,  where  a  number  of  men 
sat  with  chairs  tipped  and  feet  up  on  the  railing. 
A  pasteboard  figure  of  a  laughing  girl  peeped  im- 
pertinently from  the  side  of  a  window. 

"  Do  you  want  to  stop  hyar  for  anything  ?"  in- 
quired Gene,  yearningly,  whose  soul  was  rent  at  the 
thought  of  wasting  the  opportunity  for  a  brief  chat 
with  kindred  spirits.  He  exchanged  greetings  with 
the  men  on  the  platform.  He  had  halted  before  the 
door,  and  from  an  upper  window  came  the  sound 
of  a  deep  voice  upraised  in  exhortation. 

"  What's  going  on,  Gene  ?"  June  inquired. 

"  It's  either  a  shindig  or  a  prayer-meetin',  depend- 
in'  on  which  party  comes  out  top  o'  the  heap.  Do 
ye  want  to  rest  ye  a  spell  ?" 

"  No,  no,  we  must  drive  on,  Gene,"  and  he  loathly 
hinted  to  the  horses  to  "  Git  up." 

"  What  time  does  the  moon  rise  ?" 

"  It  oughter  be  moon-up  by  rights  nigh  onter  half 
TO 


Storm   and   Clearing 

after  eight,  but  by  the  looks  of  them  mackerel  clouds 
I  seen  this  afternoon  we  ain't  goin'  to  kitch  no  moon 
to-night.  It's  a  deal  sight  likelier  we'll  hev  a  skite 
o'  rain." 

They  were  slowly  climbing  the  long  hill  now,  and 
June  and  Alison  alighted  to  walk. 

"  When  we  get  to  Lone  Falls,"  said  Alison,  with 
conscious  folly,  "  let  us  leave  the  wagon  for  a  few 
minutes  and  stand  on  the  old  bridge  above  the  dash- 
ing rapids,  and  let  the  spirit  of  the  deserted  village 
creep  over  us." 

June  shuddered  unsympathetically. 

"  I  know,  dear,  but  it  is  just  that  weird  feeling 
it  will  be  delicious  to  realize.  The  blind,  forsaken 
mill,  those  gray-shuttered,  swaying  houses,  and  the 
tangle-overgrown  streets." 

June  put  out  a  practical,  investigating  palm,  and 
looked  upward. 

"  The  rain  is  here,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  de- 
cisive drop  splashed  on  her  nose.  "  Quick,  Alison, 
before  it  pours !" 

They  clambered  into  the  wagon  as  a  terrific  roll 
of  thunder  reverberated  from  the  west. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  fearful  storm,"  June 
said,  as  the  snorting  horses  started  on  a  gallop  under 
the  stimulation  of  Gene's  whip. 

"  And  you  have  nothing  with  you  but  that  absurd 
pink  jacket,"  said  Alison,  drawing  her  white  sweater 
over  her  serge  blouse. 

The  rain  fell  and  the  wind  blew.  Any  one  who 
has  been  caught  in  a  mountain  storm — and  what  visit- 
or to  the  north  woods  has  enjoyed  immunity — knows 
the  insulting  virulence  of  the  rain  storms.  One  grad- 
ually loses  all  hope  of  protection,  and  sits  resignedly 

71, 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

in  the  midst  of  a  pond,  with  the  water  dripping  fatu- 
ously from  above  into  the  puddle  of  one's  lap,  and 
the  rain  pelting  one's  cheek  and  ear.  And  perhaps 
after  a  half -hour's  deluge  the  sun  will  burst  out, 
like  a  great  baby  playing  peek-a-boo  behind  a  moun- 
tain, and  expect  one  immediately  to  respond  with  a 
smile. 

But  this  storm  was  not  easily  placated.  Vast  slant- 
ed water  sheets  flung  themselves  on  this  side  and  on 
that  of  the  buckboard  with  fiercest  fury.  The  very 
heavens  had  opened,  and  between  whiles  the  thunder 
and  lightning  disported  themselves  among  the  blotted- 
out  hills.  The  two  girls  shrank  together  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  seat,  while  Gene  lashed  his  horses  to  a 
run,  in  the  hope  of  reaching  shelter.  The  buckboard 
swayed,  as  Gene,  with  apparent  recklessness,  let 
the  horses  plunge  along  in  the  darkness  down  the 
hills  and  around  the  narrow  curves  of  the  stony 
road.  Finally  a  little  light  ahead  punctuated  the 
blackness,  and  they  arrived  at  Windy  Flanders. 
The  horses  were  driven  into  the  shed,  and  Alison 
and  June  fled  to  a  sheltered  recess  of  the  piazza,  al- 
ternately laughing  over  and  bemoaning  their  pitia- 
ble plight.  Rough  voices  and  shouts  of  laughter 
sounded  from  within,  where  Windy  Flanders  and 
some  of  his  boon  companions  were  in  session  to- 
gether. 

"  There  is  one  consolation,"  said  Alison — "  your 
mother  will  never  imagine  what  a  really  impossible 
situation  we  are  in." 

"  There  ain't  no  sign  of  the  rain  lettin'  up,"  re- 
marked Lawless,  splashing  up  to  the  porch  in  his 
sozzly  boots.  "  I  guess  the  best  ye  kin  do  is  to  put 
up  hyar  fer  the  night." 

72 


Storm  and    Clearing 

"  Never !"  cried  the  two  girls  at  once,  and  June 
seized  Alison's  hand  in  instinctive  appeal. 

"  The  horses  is  clean  guv  out,"  went  on  Lawless, 
imperturbably  stroking  his  wet  gray  chin-whiskers. 
"  They  was  never  good  readers,  and  I  reckon  I 
couldn't  get  you  home  till  mornin',  nohow." 

"  Bring  us  something  to  drink,  Gene.  Hot  lemon- 
ade or  whiskey  and  soda  ?" 

"  I  calc'late  he  hes  the  whiskey  all  right,  miss," 
the  man  chuckled. 

"  And  then  we  will  go  on  to  camp,  whether  or 
no." 

Alison's  dismissing  hand  was  convincing.  Law- 
less, after  an  argumentative  change  of  balance  from 
right  foot  to  left,  and  a  pull  at  his  chin-whiskers,  de- 
cided to  simulate  agreement.  He  went  inside.  From 
the  increased  mirth,  Alison  surmised  that  he  too  had 
sought  consolation  from  Windy  Flanders's  hospitable 
decanters,  when  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  the 
broad-faced  host  himself  stood  in  the  doorway.  His 
fat,  red  cheeks  were  fringed  with  yellow-gray  whis- 
kers, and  his  collarless  shirt  was  stained  with  liquor. 
Alison  and  June  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  sawdust- 
covered  floor  and  five  or  six  burly  lumbermen  gather- 
ed about  their  glasses.  The  air  was  blue  with  smoke, 
through  which  the  kerosene  lamps  burned  like  street 
gas  in  a  fog. 

"  Come  right  in,  young  leddies,"  bawled  Windy 
Flanders.  "  The  boys'll  give  ye  a  roarin*  good  wel- 
come, and  we'll  drink  to  ye'r  health  all  raound." 

The  lumbermen  in  the  background  sheepishly 
echoed  his  ""aughter.  One  of  them — already  half-seas 
over — pressed  between  the  boisterous  host  and  the 
door-frame  with  a  maudlin  plea  to  the  "  leddies  not 

73 


The  Strength    of  the    Hills 

to  be  backward."  Gene  unconcernedly  steamed  him- 
self in  front  of  the  open  fireplace. 

Windy  Flanders's  respect  for  women  was  in  exact 
proportions  to  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  their  es- 
cortage.  When  Loon  Lake  visitors  in  broad  daylight 
drove  up  before  his  establishment  with  tooting  of 
horns  and  flourish  of  whips,  and  gallant  young  fel- 
lows ready  at  the  steps  to  assist  fluttering  creatures 
to  alight,  no  one  could  be  more  obsequious  than  he, 
preferring  the  shade  of  his  piazza,  rocking-chairs, 
and  ice-cold  buttermilk,  rubbing  his  broad,  dimpled 
hands  on  his  loose  trousers  with  an  overflow  of  defer- 
ence. But  two  dripping  damsels  in  the  darkness, 
with  a  guide  who  dried  himself  leisurely  in  the 
tap-room,  evoked  altogether  a  different  manner. 

"  Well,  hain't  ye  got  nothin'  to  say  fer  yourselves  ?" 
he  continued.  "  We  cain't  keep  this  hyar  door  open 
all  night  fer  ye.  Come  in  and  welcome  to  what  we've 
got.  Or  ain't  it  good  enough  fer  ye  ?" 

"  Thank  you  for  your  hospitality,  Mr.  Flanders." 
Alison  stepped  forward  and  eyed  Windy  Flanders 
with  her  clear,  honest  gaze.  "  We  are  on  our  way 
home  to  Colonel  Hollister's  camp.  If  you  will  kind- 
ly give  me  a  little  glass  of  whiskey  for  Miss  Hollister, 
who  is  almost  exhausted.  No,  we  will  not  come  in 
unless  you  have  a  room  with  a  fire  where  we  can 
be  by  ourselves." 

Alison  looked  at  him  steadily,  while  June  clung 
to  her  hand,  half-crying. 

"  Lemme  by,"  cried  the  maudlin  lumberman, 
pressing  forward.  "  In  wish  ye,  my  beau'shies,  an' 
I'll  show  ye  how  warm  yourshe'ves  up." 

In  the  stress  of  the  storm  no  one  heard  the  ap- 
proaching wheels.  June's  cry  of  terror  only  awaken- 

74 


Storm   and  Clearing 

ed  pleasurable  anticipation  from  the  rough  audience 
now  bunched  within  the  doorway. 

When  Enoch  left  the  hall  and  joined  his  brothers 
down-stairs,  it  was  with  mingled  feelings  of  humili- 
ation and  triumph.  The  domineering  quality  of  his 
will  was  almost  oppressive,  yet  it  was  joined  to  such 
personal  magnetism  that  he  had  seldom  suffered  de- 
feat. In  a  bad  cause  Enoch  could  have  had  the  power 
of  a  Mephistopheles.  To  his  mother  and  to  those  who 
loved  him  he  seemed  an  archangel.  He  himself  was 
unconscious  of  the  amazing  determination  that  com- 
pelled people  and  circumstances  under  his  sway.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  this  absorbing  de- 
votion to  one's  ideals  was  not  characteristic  of  all  the 
world.  He  only  knew  that  God's  ways  should  be 
his  way,  and  that  his  way  he  was  strong  enough  to 
bring  about.  To  have  conquered,  by  God's  help, 
Loiseau's  wild  crew  of  dancers  into  submissive  listen- 
ers, though  it  gave  him  no  giddy  elation,  filled  his 
heart  with  the  grave  joy  of  victory.  Then  the  joy 
was  turned  to  bitterness  by  Sararose's  rebellion.  That 
he  could  touch  the  hearts  of  outsiders,  and  was  help- 
less to  mould  to  his  hand  his  own  little  sister,  seemed 
intolerable.  He  did  not  dream  that  the  bitterness 
of  thwarted  will  infused  itself  into  his  proud  sorrow. 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  at  the  end  of  the 
store.  The  look  in  his  eyes  was  both  sad  and  cruel. 

"  You  boys  go  on  home,"  he  said  to  Ab  and  Azzy. 
u  I  shall  wait  here  for  Sararose  till  the  dance  is 
over." 

They  remonstrated  with  him,  but  in  vain.  Partly 
for  Sararose,  partly  for  Enoch's  sake  they  hated  to 
leave  him  to  the  long  vigil,  well  imagining  the  dreari- 
ness of  the  ride  home  for  the  young  girl,  with  her 

75 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

stern  brother  beside  her,  and  the  tension  of  his  own 
feelings.  They  reminded  him  of  the  morrow's  work, 
but  he  held  that  his  duty  to  Sararose  was  paramount ; 
so  they  left  him.  For  half  an  hour  he  sat  staring 
at  the  box  of  fancy  biscuit  on  the  counter,  while  the 
sing-song  of  the  music  and  the  slide  of  the  dancers' 
feet  were  a  dismal  undertone  to  his  thoughts.  At 
such  times  it  often  seemed  to  him  that  his  life  was  a 
failure.  The  mother,  whom  he  had  worshipped,  had 
filled  his  mind  with  the  noblest  ideals.  It  had  not 
seemed,  either  to  her  or  to  him,  folly  to  hope  for 
their  attainment.  With  a  completed  education,  and 
as  minister  of  the  gospel,  Enoch  Holme  did  not  in 
his  mind  stop  short  of  a  great  church  and  a  world- 
wide influence.  In  whatever  sphere  of  life  he  had 
been  placed  he  had  so  far  been  master.  At  the 
lumber  camps  in  the  winter  the  wild  men  under  him 
had  looked  up  to  him  as  a  head.  He  had  been  mas- 
ter-wit, controlling  their  pleasure  as  naturally  as 
he  organized  their  labor.  They  had  gathered  to  hear 
him  preach  a  sermon — an  event  before  unknown  in 
those  backwoods  settlements. 

In  college  he  had  easily  led  his  class,  holding  the 
office  of  president,  and  gaining  academic  distinction 
both  as  student  and  orator.  His  rigid  morality  had 
repelled  some  few,  but  his  genial  overflow  of  rustic 
humor  attracted  more,  while  the  force  of  his  intel- 
lect compelled  admiration  from  all.  But  to-night 
the  thoughts  of  his  past  and  future  sickened  him. 
His  influence  over  the  lives  of  those  nearest  him 
was  not  dominant.  The  mountain  bickerings  and 
feuds  went  on  about  Elk  Mountain  and  Loon  Lake. 
Drink  and  cards  had  each  their  quota  of  devotees. 
His  own  brothers  abjured  neither.  His  little  con- 

76 


Storm   and   Clearing 

gregation,  as  Loiseau  had  tauntingly  declared,  was 
largely  composed  of  the  women  and  children.  The 
young  girls  who  listened  to  him  on  Sundays  still 
mingled  with  the  ungodly  and  irreligious  at  their  so- 
cial gatherings.  And  his  only  sister  —  his  beloved 
Sararose — would  not  subscribe  to  his  own  lofty  tenets 
of  altruism  and  purity. 

The  waltz  music  floated  down  through  the  cracks 
of  the  ceiling,  languidly  reiterating  the  voluptuous 
invitation,  over  and  over  again,  with  feverish  em- 
phasis. 

"  Thou,  God,  hast  humbled  me,"  prayed  Enoch. 
"  Oh,  Christ,  save  her,  save  her !" 

With  this  passionate  prayer  on  his  lips,  he  be- 
came aware  of  his  sister's  presence  before  him.  She 
had  slipped  down  -  stairs  for  pins  to  repair  a  rent 
in  her  ruffles.  Enoch's  heart  overflowed  with  ten- 
derness for  her.  She  was  flushed  and  tired,  hold- 
ing the  torn  skirt  with  one  hand,  the  other  replac- 
ing a  coil  of  the  lustrous  hair  that  had  fallen  on  one 
shoulder. 

"  My  darling,"  he  exclaimed,  catching  her  to  his 
heart.  "  My  own  little  sister,  you  are  sorry,  and  you 
are  coming  home  with  me." 

Sararose  was  flushed  with  Hollister's  gallantries. 
How  oblivious  this  great  brother  was  to  the  hair  and 
the  eyes  that  Mr.  Hollister  had  praised!  How  he 
crushed  her  in  his  arms,  with  no  thought  but  to  win 
her  to  his  purpose,  now  by  severity  or  now  by  en- 
dearment. 

"  No,  I  am  not  sorry,"  she  answered,  in  a  cold,  re- 
mote little  voice.  "  Let  me  go ;  you  are  mussing  my 
lace." 

Enoch  drew  back  from  her.  The  tears  misted  his 
7Y 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

blue  eyes.  The  whole  look  of  his  face  was  infinitely 
sad.  Sararose  melted  a  little. 

"  You  have  been  waiting  for  me  ?" 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

The  contrast  struck  her  between  the  light  and 
gayety  up-stairs  and  the  loneliness  of  the  cold,  dull 
store  below. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Enoch,"  she  said,  nestling  up  to  him, 
"  but  please  don't  wait  for  me.  Tyke  will  take  me 
home." 

"  You  are  breaking  my  heart,  little  sister,"  said 
Enoch,  solemnly.  He  saw  that  she  was  moved. 

"  Your  heart  is  easily  broken,"  returned  she,  her 
mouth  full  of  pins  now,  as  she  caught  together  her 
ruffles. 

He  sank  into  his  chair  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  Sararose  was  afraid  that  he  was  praying. 
She  put  one  thin,  nervous  hand  on  his  forehead  and 
smoothed  his  hair.  Poor  Enoch,  how  grim  life  must 
be  for  him ! 

"  I  will  stay  here  all  night  with  Zuba,"  she  whis- 
pered. "  Will  you  like  that  better  ?" 

Enoch  leaped  from  his  chair,  and  before  she  knew 
what  he  was  about  he  had  flung  his  overcoat  over  her 
shoulders. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  me,"  he  said,  fiercely, 
"  and  you  will  not  go  up-stairs  again."  He  transfixed 
her  with  a  look  of  steely  determination.  Sararose's 
will  sprung  out  to  meet  his.  Jerking  herself  free  of 
his  overcoat,  she  stamped  on  it. 

"  But  I  will,"  she  cried,  and  was  up  the  stairs  and 
out  of  sight  like  a  flash. 

After  this  episode,  and  in  such  a  mood,  Enoch 
harnessed  his  horses  and  started  on  the  long  home- 

78 


Storm    and    Clearing 

ward  ride  through  the  storm.  When  he  reached 
Windy  Flanders's  the  open  door  and  the  group  on 
the  threshold  attracted  his  notice — Flanders,  with  the 
insolence  of  power  on  his  purple  face,  the  drunken 
lumberman  pushing  forward  with  a  maudlin  smile, 
and  Alison  MacDonald,  with  the  repellent  gesture  of 
her  hand,  her  damp,  white  serge  clinging  to  her  form 
like  sculptured  drapery.  Then  June's  scream  rang 
out.  It  was  not  a  moment  before  Enoch  had  thrown 
the  reins  over  the  horses'  necks  and  was  within  the 
gates  and  up  the  steps  like  an  avenging  deity. 

"  Brutes,"  he  cried,  and  Flanders  and  his  compan- 
ions fell  ignominiously  backward  into  the  room  under 
the  powerful  stroke  of  his  arm. 

He  stood  there  hatless,  the  red  light  falling  on  his 
noble  forehead,  his  rough  hair  and  beard  curly  with 
the  dampness,  and  his  clinched  hands  ready  for  an 
onset.  But  no  one  dared  attack  him,  for  Enoch 
Holme,  aroused,  was  a  lion,  and  even  the  drunken 
lumberman  knew  that  his  cause  was  problematical. 
Windy  Flanders  reflected  that  perhaps,  after  all,  the 
intervention  had  saved  him  some  unpleasant  conse- 
quences. For,  if  the  ladies  were  from  the  Hollister 
Camp,  Colonel  Hollister  was  a  man  to  be  reckoned 
with. 

After  Enoch  learned  from  Alison  of  their  difficulty, 
and  where  they  were  bound,  he  turned  once  more  to 
Flanders. 

"  Build  a  fire  in  your  kitchen,"  he  commanded, 
"  and  quick  about  it,  too !" 

It  was  not  many  minutes  before  Enoch  conducted 
the  girls  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  logs  began  cheerily 
to  blaze  in  the  immense  fireplace. 

"  So  you  are  Enoch  Holme,"  said  June,  frankly 
79 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

satisfying  her  curiosity  by  a  look  of  admiration  that 
the  man  found  not  wholly  to  his  liking.  The  slight 
reserve  of  Alison's  eyes  preserved  the  homage  of 
equality.  "  On  Private  View  "  is  humiliating  even 
to  lions. 

"  I  am  Enoch  Holme,  Miss  Hollister,"  he  replied, 
so  gravely  that  June  was  rebuked. 

"  You  have  been  a  family  name  with  us  ever  since 
Dick  visited  the  camp,  last  winter,"  she  added,  more 
humbly.  "  Hasn't  he,  Alison  ?"  June  found  it  nec- 
essary to  strengthen  herself  by  side  appeal,  always  a 
symptom  of  shaky  conversational  footing. 

Alison !  Enoch  thought  of  the  memorandum  in 
a  compartment  of  his  well  -  worn  pocket  -  book.  He 
looked  at  her  again,  and  she  knew  the  surmise  that 
had  come  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am  A.  MacDonald,  Secretary,"  in  calm 
answer  to  his  look.  They  both  laughed,  and  June 
looked  astonishment.  Undercurrents  were  not  June's 
specialty. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Enoch,  still  smiling 
and  glad  at  least  that  she  did  not  know  of  his  un- 
pardonable liberty  with  the  memorandum.  What 
right  has  one  to  treasure  in  one's  memory  a  casual 
detail  in  some  one  else's  life  ?  "  After  you  are  warm 
and  dry,  and  as  soon  as  you  wish  it,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
at  your  service  to  take  you  home." 

"  The  conquering  hero !"  exclaimed  June,  after  he 
had  gone  out.  "  But  what  was  he  begging  pardon 
and  both  of  you  laughing  about?"  She  toasted  her 
feet  comfortably  on  the  fender,  while  Alison,  white 
and  trembling  after  the  excitement,  sipped  her  whis- 
key, leaning  against  the  chimney-shelf. 

"  What  should  we  have  done  ?"  said  Alison.  "  He 
80 


Storm    and   Clearing 

was  a  regular  god  from  the  machine.  Now  I  wonder 
if  he  would  understand  that." 

u  He  did  drop  from  the  clouds,"  sighed  June. 
"  Perhaps  he  will  vanish  as  quickly  when  his  work 
is  done,  like  the  fairies  in  Hans  Andersen." 

June  and  Alison  laughed  gently  together.  The 
affair  had  already  begun  to  reassume  its  cheerful  as- 
pect, and,  with  the  readiness  of  youth,  they  lent  them- 
selves to  adventure. 

The  moon  was  out  and  placidly  beaming  as  they 
started  on  the  homeward  drive.  Enoch  in  front,  sil- 
houetted against  the  light,  and  June  and  Alison  be- 
hind, wrapped  up  in  a  buffalo-robe,  none  too  warm 
against  the  mountain  air  after  the  rain.  June,  rest- 
ing against  Alison's  shoulder,  was  soon  asleep,  but 
the  latter  was  too  keenly  alive  to  the  novelty  of  the 
situation  and  the  surpassing  beauty  of  newly  washed 
moonshine  on  glittering  foliage  and  shadowlike  etch- 
ings on  the  white,  winding  road  to  yield  to  the  least- 
inclination  towards  slumber.  They  dipped  into  a 
pool  of  darkness  between  high,  overhanging  banks  and 
down  the  hill  that  leads  to  the  rapids  of  the  Elder 
River.  The  roaring  of  the  water  warned  them  of  the 
approach  to  Lone  Falls.  The  fury  of  the  overcharged 
current,  boiling  between  its  banks,  filled  the  air.  The 
great  swept  heavens  were  glorious  with  light  above 
the  woolly  white  cataract.  Enoch  drew  up  on  the 
bridge  and  sat  silent.  Alison  wondered  if  he,  too, 
had  fallen  under  the  spell  of  moonlight  and  many- 
toned  sound.  It  seemed  as  if  one  sat  at  the  heart  of 
a  great  complex  symphony,  with  tones  and  undertones 
thundering  about  one,  and  nothing  but  confusion  and 
tumult  out  of  it  all.  Then,  as  one  listened,  mere 
noise  subsided,  and  the  most  exquisite  harmony  fell 
F  81 


The  Strength  of  the   Hills 

upon  the  senses,  many-hued  as  the  rainbow,  cool  and 
wonderful  in  timbre  as  no  instrument  can  ever  real- 
ize. The  piano  or  harp  can  produce  single  notes  with 
the  musical  tinkle  of  rain,  but  the  waterfall  and  the 
river  hold  their  secret  unmolested. 

Alison  was  motionless,  for  her  arm  was  about  June, 
and  she  feared  to  awaken  her.  Enoch,  looking  back, 
had  deemed  them  both  asleep.  He  gave  himself  over 
to  his  reverie.  The  excitement  of  the  incident  at 
Windy  Flanders's,  the  glory  of  the  night,  the  cool 
touch  of  mountain  air  had  driven  from  him  the  pain 
of  the  earlier  evening.  Turning  towards  the  falls, 
he  bared  his  brow  to  the  breeze.  It  seemed  to  Ali- 
son, watching,  almost  a  gesture  of  reverence.  The 
moon  lighted  his  forehead.  Then  she  heard  his  voice, 
low,  sonorous :  "  The  floods  have  lifted  up,  O  Lord, 
the  floods  have  lifted  up  their  voices;  the  floods  lift 
up  their  waves." 

There  was  silence  again,  and  to  Alison  one  note 
less  in  the  liquid  symphony.  Again  the  chime  of  the 
voice,  deeper  than  before. 

"  The  Lord  on  high  is  mightier  than  the  noise  of 
many  waters,  yea,  than  the  mighty  waves  of  the  sea." 

He  drove  on.  Up  the  long  village  street  the  gray, 
uninhabited  houses  hung  like  cobwebs.  When  Ali- 
son asked  Enoch  some  trivial  question  about  the  vil- 
lage she  did  not  know  how  she  startled  him  out  of 
deep  thought.  Alison's  voice,  like  her  hands,  ex- 
pressed a  unique  individuality.  It  woke  him  to  the 
consciousness  of  a  person  among  the  buffalo-robes. 
He  turned  towards  her  as  he  spoke,  while  the  horses 
slowly  climbed  the  steep  road,  deeply  rutted  by  the 
storm.  They  were  in  an  open  wagon,  and  the  moon 
shone  clearly  on  Alison's  oval  features,  obliterating 

82 


Storm    and    Clearing 

the  girlish  piquancy  of  daylight  and  lending  an  oth- 
er-worldliness  to  her  dark  eyes.  She  had  folded  the 
robe  away  from  her  and  about  June,  so  that,  in  her 
white  serge  skirt  and  close  white  sweater,  she  seem- 
ed moulded  of  unreality. 

Enoch  told  her  traditions  of  the  mountain  and  one 
weird  tale  of  Lone  Falls,  the  deserted  village.  Thir- 
ty years  ago  it  had  been  a  prosperous  settlement,  the 
whizzing  of  the  mill-wheels  providing  flour  for  the 
mining-camps.  There  were  shops  and  houses  built 
by  miners  or  by  those  who  supplied  their  wants,  and 
a  busy  life  coming  and  going  in  the  streets.  But 
when  the  iron  -  mines  were  closed  the  industry  of 
Lone  Falls  succumbed,  and  its  few  hundred  inhabi- 
tants scattered.  The  barren  soil  refused  to  give  sus- 
tenance to  farmers,  and  the  untenanted  houses  grew 
grayer  from  year  to  year.  Strange  stories  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth  of  a  haunted  house,  set  deeply 
within  its  grove  of  overgrown  cedars,  that  pressed 
closely  against  the  very  windows.  A  huge  lilac-bush 
hid  the  door-way,  and  the  back  garden  was  screened 
from  the  road  by  a  jungle  of  brambles  and  bushes. 
Once  a  lumberman  going  through  by  night  on  horse- 
back had  seen  a  candle-light  wavering  from  window 
to  window.  A  bevy  of  country  girls,  driving  past  to 
Spriggs's  Corners  at  twilight,  heard  a  child's  voice 
wailing  from  the  garden.  They  had  hurried  on  with 
uncouth  screams  and  voluble  conjecture.  A  daring 
couple  from  the  Loon  Lake  Hotel  saw  a  shadowy  face 
peering  at  them  from  a  hole  in  the  \vindow-pane,  and 
then  a  bony  hand  that  drew  the  head  backward  by 
its  long  hair.  They  had  torn  away  the  vines  from  the 
unwilling  gate,  and  forced  an  entrance  through  tall 
weeds  to  the  shattered  front  steps.  The  men  cut 

83 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

away  the  lilac  branches  and  loudly  knocked  on  the 
door.  No  response  came  but  the  dismal  reverbera- 
tion of  an  empty  house.  They  had  looked  in  at  the 
window,  seeing  nothing  but  bare  walls  and  the  thick 
dust  and  cobwebs  of  long  disuse,  and  so  gone  on  their 
way  unenlightened. 

"  The  mystery  was  finally  solved,"  finished  Enoch, 
"  when  a  traveller  arrived  at  Elk  Mountain  with  the 
story  that,  belated,  the  night  before,  he  had  slept  at 
Lone  Falls.  Not  knowing  the  village  was  a  deserted 
one,  he  had  knocked  from  door  to  door,  till,  coming 
to  the  haunted  house,  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  spade 
in  the  garden.  He  tore  his  way  through  the  brambles 
and  saw  in  the  dim  light  a  woman,  her  clothes  in 
tatters,  digging  on  a  side  hill.  He  got  to  his  ques- 
tions no  response  but  inarticulate  cries,  but  she  gave 
him  a  straw  bed  in  an  out-house.  In  the  morning  he 
discovered  the  weirdness  of  the  situation.  The  wom- 
an of  the  night  before  gave  him  a  breakfast  of  boiled 
potatoes.  An  idiot  boy  in  a  woman's  calico  wrapper 
was  her  companion.  The  two  occupied  a  large,  filthy 
room  in  a  wing  at  the  back  of  the  house,  were  lean 
to  emaciation,  and  their  clothing  literally  hung  in 
shreds.  Their  hair  was  long  and  matted,  and  they 
gave  no  sign  of  ability  to  use  human  speech." 

"  How  strange  and  horrible !"  cried  Alison ;  "  and 
was  his  story  investigated  ?" 

"  It  was  found  to  be  true.  The  woman's  husband. 
a  miner,  had  left  her  with  a  promise,  probably,  to 
return  or  to  send  for  her  when  he  found  work,  and 
meanwhile  the  village  folk  drifted  away.  This  wom- 
an moved  down  from  her  shanty  near  the  mining- 
camp  and  took  up  the  abandoned  house.  It  was 
found  she  had  raised  potatoes  and  other  vegetables 

84 


Storm   and   Clearing 

in  her  garden  from  year  to  year,  but  how  she  pro- 
vided for  herself  God  only  knows.  Her  idiot  child 
grew  up,  and  she,  like  him,  lost  all  sense  of  human 
fellowship  and  intercourse." 

"  They  were  rescued  and  cared  for  ?" 

"  They  were  cared  for  as  well  as  might  be,  but  it 
was  difficult  to  bring  back  any  but  the  dimmest  intel- 
ligence to  the  woman's  buried  faculties.  She  and  the 
boy  died  soon  after." 

Enoch  omitted  his  own  part  in  their  rescue.  He 
was  the  one  who  had  sought  them  out  and  taken  them 
at  first  to  his  own  house,  where  John  now  lived.  But, 
unwilling  that  Sararose,  then  a  little  girl  of  eight 
years,  should  suffer  so  uncanny  a  presence  with  her 
in  the  house,  he  had  tried  to  find  a  refuge  for  them 
among  the  neighbors  where  there  were  women  in  the 
household.  Failing  in  this,  he  had  taken  the  poor, 
forsaken  creatures  to  Lost  Inn,  his  own  peculiar  lodge 
up  in  the  woods,  and  had  fitted  them  up  comfortably 
out  of  his  meagre  resources.  It  had  been  in  the  sum- 
mer season,  when  the  log-driving  was  over,  and  he  had 
found  time  for  daily  visits  to  care  for  their  needs. 
He  had  hoped  that  with  cleanliness,  warmth,  com- 
panionship, and  good  food,  the  woman's  intelligence 
might  be  restored.  No  one,  not  even  his  brothers, 
who  helped  him  at  Lost  Inn,  knew  the  time  and  effort 
that  Enoch  had  vainly  spent  on  these  pathetic  tags 
of  humanity. 

"  It  almost  seems  more  pitiful  than  weird,"  said 
Alison,  when  he  had  concluded,  "  the  terrible  isola- 
tion and  barrenness  that  made  such  a  life  possible." 

"  Yet  it  is  characteristic  of  our  mountain  people," 
said  Enoch,  "  and  only  an  extreme  instance.  There 
are  few  who  lose  the  capacity  for  speech,  but  there 

85 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

are  many  who  have  capacity  for  feeling  and  for  the 
speech  that  springs  from  nobler  human  fellowship." 

"  Sad,  sad,"  Alison  responded. 

The  sympathetic  vagueness  of  her  tone  aroused 
Enoch  to  the  fact  that  she  was  an  outsider  and  a 
stranger.  He  had  forgotten  external  relationship  as 
he  talked  with  her,  only  aware  of  the  soul  in  her  eyes 
and  voice.  Alison  had  the  eyes  and  the  voice  that 
lead  men  to  self-revelation.  She  did  not  have  beauty, 
nor  the  fascination  of  brilliance,  but  she  had  had 
more  lovers  than  if  she  were  possessed  of  both.  Love- 
making  was  the  dreaded  termination  of  many  of  her 
most  satisfying  friendships. 

Now  they  were  at  the  top  of  the  range,  with  the 
long  valley  below  them,  Lake  Miquewauga  lying  in 
moonlight  like  a  silver  shield,  so  still  that  one  might 
almost  hear 

"  The  sighs  of  all  the  sleepers  in  the  world." 

"  Here  we  are  above  the  -woods,  and  on  the  up- 
land," said  Enoch,  "  and  I  have  been  troubling  you 
with  the  sadness  of  the  valley.  It  is  not  right ;  you 
have  enough  that  is  unpleasant  to  remember  of  this 
night  without  my  grewsome  yarning." 

"  I  shall  also  have  something  pleasant  to  remem- 
ber," said  Alison  with  directness,  "  and  q»uite  un- 
usual." 

She  laughed  girlishly,  but  Enoch  was  silent,  not 
knowing  how  to  understand  the  laughter. 

"  Mr.  Holme,"  she  went  on,  earnestly,  divining  his 
mind,  "  you  do  not  know  how  you  have  interested 
me  this  night.  Please  do  not  regret  that  you  have 
spoken  of  life  so  candidly." 

"86 


Storm  and   Clearing 

Her  beautiful  voice  and  the  sweet  look  of  her  eyes, 
which  he  turned  to  meet,  disarmed  his  last  suspicion. 
The  backwoods  reticence  and  the  fear  of  misunder- 
standing was  characteristic  of  Enoch,  as  it  was  of  all 
the  mountain  folk.  Added  to  it,  in  Enoch,  was  a 
large,  gentle  pity  for  the  shallow  volubility  that 
seemed  to  him  the  distinguishing  trait  of  superior 
city  people.  But  this  girl  he  at  once  gave  a  place  by 
herself.  He  wondered  if  it  would  be  ever  his  good 
fortune  to  know  well  such  a  one.  Could  he  ever  re- 
veal to  her  the  secret  of  the  pocket-book?  What  a 
listener  she  had  been !  All  the  virtues  and  intelli- 
gences namable  may  easily  be  attributed  to  a  good 
listener. 

"  I  do  not  regret  it.  I  will  not  regret  it,"  Enoch 
responded. 

As  they  drove  down  the  long  incline  towards  the 
valley,  Alison  exclaimed  over  the  loveliness  of  the 
unrolling  scene.  Her  words  were  the  simple  out- 
gushing  of  the  joy  of  earth,  and  required  no  answer. 
Enoch  recognized  them  as  such,  and  thought,  with 
an  almost  passionate  poignancy,  that  the  drive 
would  soon  be  over,  and  that,  in  all  probability,  he 
should  never  lay  eyes  on  this  girl  again. 

"  Above  us,  Miss  MacDonald,"  he  cried,  pointing 
upward  to  the  luminous,  large  vault  of  heaven. 

Alison  looked  upward  long  and  earnestly. 

"  The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare," 

quoted  she. 

Enoch  recognized  it  as  a  quotation,  but  did  not 
know  the  source.  On  such  a  night  it  was  trivial  to 

87 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

think  in  any  words  but  David's,  the  mountain  min- 
strel of  earth  and  God ! 

"  When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers, 
the  moon  and  the  stars  which  thou  hast  ordained." 

His  solemn  response  was  like  reproof.  Sounding 
so  in  his  own  ears  in  the  quiet  that  followed,  he  hasten- 
ed to  redeem  the  situation.  "  That  is  my  mood,  Miss 
MacDonald;  you  see  I  am  a  serious  man.  But  let 
me  hear  more  of  your  poet.  I  do  not  know  him." 

"  Really  2"  asked  Alison.  "  I  love  the  poets,  but 
my  friends  will  not  let  me  quote  them.  They  say 
it  is  sentimental." 

"  If  I  were  your  friend,"  said  Enoch,  "  you  would 
not  be  deprived.  The  poets  give  us  the  fine  essence  of 
philosophy,  love,  and  religion." 

"  You  are  my  friend  from  this  time,"  said  Alison, 
again  with  the  directness  that  made  her  "  different." 
"  Are  you  not,  Mr.  Holme  ?" 

"  I  shall  count  it  an  honor.  And  now  will  you  give 
me  your  poet?" 

Alison  leaned  forward,  reciting  some  simple  lines, 
and  the  charm  of  Wordsworth  was  first  revealed  to 
Enoch  Holme. 

"And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute,  insensate  things." 

Alison  had  a  fleeting  thought,  as  one  will  even 
when  one  is  most  in  earnest,  of  how  Richard  and 
June,  all  the  merry  materialistic  camp  at  Mique- 
wauga,  would  scoff  at  her  if  they  could  learn  of  this 

88 


Storm    and    Clearing 

poetry  -  quoting  episode  with  the  Elk  Mountain 
preacher,  how  it  would  pass  down  as  a  legend  and  a 
byword,  teasingly  to  confront  her,  with  ingenious 
decorative  adjuncts,  at  many  a  familiar  gathering. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear — " 

Alison,  changing  the  position  of  June's  head  on  her 
tired  arm,  thought,  with  a  little  humor,  what  a  good 
story  June  could  make  of  it  if  she  should  only  be 
pretending  sleep. 

"  You  are  tired,"  cried  Enoch,  with  quick  sympa- 
thy. He  took  the  light  blanket  from  his  knees.  "  Put 
this  under  your  friend's  head,  against  the  back — yes, 
so,  and  you  will  not  have  to  support  her.  There,  that 
is  better.  The  poem  again,  please." 

The  calmness  of  his  request  satisfied  Alison.  He 
was  at  ease  with  her.  She  loved  to  put  people  at 
their  ease. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  should  enjoy  better,"  she  an- 
swered. "  You  are  sure  it  will  not  bore  you  ?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

" — and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face." 

Enoch,  looking  at  the  speaker,  and  listening  with  a 
strange  new  delight  to  her  rainbow  voice,  could  only 
think  that  she  perfectly  portrayed  herself.  They  had 
turned  into  the  rough  camp-road  some  time  ago,  the 
horses  picking  their  way  carefully  in  the  darkness. 

89 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  Now,  here  we  are,"  said  Enoch,  regretfully,  as 
the  lights  from  various  windows  glimmered  through 
the  trees.  "  Here  we  are." 

"  At  last,"  cried  Alison,  only  thinking  of  the  long, 
anxious  watch  that  had  doubtless  been  kept  for  them. 

At  last!  The  little  exclamation  recalled  Enoch  to 
the  briefness  of  their  relationship.  He  pulled  the 
horses  up  hard,  with  the  same  sort  of  pull  at  his 
heart. 

"  June,  dear,  here  we  are." 

"  Already  ?"  cried  June,  sleepily. 

The  doors  were  opened,  and  people  ran  out,  and 
servants  came,  and  there  was  much  embracing  and 
kissing,  explaining  and  interrupting,  as  Enoch  drove 
away  through  the  silent  woods. 

The  poem's  end  said  itself  over  in  his  mind — 

"  The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be." 

Weakling,  why  will  not  be  ?  It  shall  be.  Fool, 
why  should  it  be  ?  What  do  you  care  for  her,  or  she 
for  you? 


CHAPTER  VII 
At  the   Elk   Mountain  Church 

THE  dance  at  Spriggs's  had  been  provocative  of  a 
quarrel.  It  started  over  conflicting  orders  to  the 
musicians  from  Hartle  and  Loiseau.  Hartle  order- 
ed a  polka,  and  Loiseau  a  waltz.  From  this  small 
beginning  the  fracas  had  grown  to  serious  propor- 
tions, and  had  engaged  upon  one  side  or  the  other 
most  of  the  men  in  the  hall.  It  had  finally  aroused 
to  consciousness  a  feud,  long  dormant,  between  the 
Loiseaus  and  the  Newcomes,  in  which  during  the  next 
few  days  the  whole  mountain-side  became  concerned, 
and  ranged  themselves  strictly  along  party  lines. 
Hollister  and  John  Holme  departed  earlier,  when 
the  interruption  first  waxed  tedious,  after  which 
Sararose  visibly  languished.  Then  Tyke  took  her 
away,  and  bestowed  her  safely  below  in  charge  of 
Zuba  Spriggs  and  her  mother.  She  was  half  sorry, 
after  all,  that  she  had  gone  to  the  dance,  sorry  that 
she  had  repelled  Enoch  so  coldly,  and,  above  all,  she 
dreaded  his  silent  severity,  the  usual  aftermath  of 
these  estrangements. 

When  she  saw  him  at  supper  the  next  evening  she 
was  prepared  for  the  stern  abstraction  of  manner  that 
marked  his  displeasure.  Enoch  had  usually  no  set 
design  of  punishment  for  Sararose,  but  what  natural 

91 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

displeasure  he  felt  at  wrong  -  doing  he  was  willing 
should  be  manifest  to  wrong-doers.  It  was  a  dynamic 
force  of  no  mean  power.  But,  contrary  to  her  ex- 
pectations, she  found  him  overflowing  with  gentle- 
ness. 

He  rallied  her  on  her  blushes  when  Azzy  spoke 
of  ^Tyke,  praised  her  soda-biscuit  with  boyish  enthusi- 
asm, told  some  amusing  stories  of  the  lumber-camp, 
mimicking  the  French-Canadian  patois  of  one  of  his 
men,  and  after  supper  was  over,  insisted  on  helping 
her  with  the  dishes.  Enoch's  gayety  was  as  domi- 
nating as  his  gloom.  He  could  fill  the  whole  house 
with  sunshine  or  with  darkness,  as  he  pleased.  He 
was  governed  by  mood  more  than  most  people.  But 
he  differed  from  most  people  in  believing  that  mood 
was  conscience.  If  the  mood  of  indulgence  was  on 
him,  indulgence  was  the  dictate  of  conscience,  and 
vice-versa.  To-night  some  of  the  brightness  of  the 
drive  with  Alison  lingered  with  him.  He  had  a  vague 
feeling  of  happiness  in  store  for  him,  of  great  possi- 
bilities of  good.  His  heart  was  warm  towards  hu- 
manity. This  was  before  the  latent  feud  had  sprung 
up,  before  he  had  got  the  rumor  of  the  evening's  dis- 
turbance. 

The  leaves  of  the  tables  were  folded  down,  and 
the  green-shaded  lamp  put  in  the  centre  of  the  red 
cotton  cover.  Azzy  sat  quiet,  his  curly  head  bent 
over  some  mechanical  drawings.  He  was  planning 
some  device  to  improve  the  circular  saw  in  use  at 
Hollister's  mills.  Ab,  on  the  sofa,  read  his  newspa- 
per, The  Country  Gentleman.  Daddy,  in  his  arm- 
chair, seemed  absorbed  in  thought,  carefully  fitting 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  together,  and  making  other  ac- 
curate digital  arrangements.  Enoch  drew  Sararose 

92 


At    the   Elk    Mountain    Church 

upon  his  knees.  She  was  such  a  child,  and  he  must 
be  very  tender  with  her.  He  wondered  if  she  loved 
him  as  much  as  he  loved  her.  If  she  would  only  love 
him  deeply,  she  would  obey  him  and  do  his  will. 
Then  he  would  make  her  happy  and  save  her  from 
folly  and  wrong-doing. 

"  You  are  tired,  tired,"  he  said.  "  Brother  is  sorry 
that  his  little  sister  must  work.  When  Prince  Charm- 
ing goes  by,  he  will  take  you  away  in  his  gold  char- 
iot and  you  shall  do  nothing  all  day." 

He  caressed  her  little  hand,  holding  it  in  his  and 
looking  at  it  as  if  it  were  a  precious  thing.  Sara- 
rose  adapted  herself  gracefully  to  caresses.  The 
Holmes  were  not  awkward  in  demonstration  of  affec- 
tion as  were  the  families  about  them.  There  must 
have  been  a  Romance  strain  somewhere  in  their 
blood. 

Sararose  laughed  brightly.  "  But  sit  on  a  cushion 
and  sew  a  fine  seam,"  she  finished;  "  and  what  will 
you  do,  Enoch,  when  I  have  ridden  away  with  Prince 
Charming  ?" 

"  Cut  timber  for  your  firewood." 

"  Oh  no,  you  will  find  a  Princess  Charming,  and  I 
shall  raise  strawberries  for  her  breakfast." 

Both  of  them  laughed.  Sararose  conjured  up  a 
Prince  Charming  with  warm  brown  eyes  and  a  dent 
in  the  middle  of  his  chin.  Enoch's  Princess  Charm- 
ing had  an  oval,  creamy  face  and  a  voice  of  music. 

"  Sing  me  a  little  song,  Sararose,  and  then  I  will 
read  to  you  while  you  darn  stockings." 

"  A  hymn  or  f  Annie  Laurie  '  ?" 

"  Which  would  you  rather,  dear  ?" 

"  '  Annie  Laurie,'  or  any  song  you  please.  I  hate 
hvmns." 

93 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

Sararose  was  emboldened  by  his  playful  mood. 

"  A  song,  then  afterwards,  for  my  sake,  l  Be- 
hold a  Stranger  at  the  Door.' ' 

Sararose  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  fat  song- 
book  at  the  old  yellow-keyed  piano  which  had  been 
her  mother's.  "  The  Suwanee  River,"  "  The  Harp 
that  Once,"  "Lily  Dale,"  "Annie  Laurie"  -she 
passed  them  all  by.  She  played  a  few  bars  of  "  Kath- 
leen Mavourneen,"  but  it  was  always  a  little  high  for 
her  voice ;  then  "  A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Bowl," 
but  she  remembered  in  time  that  Enoch  did  not  like 
convivial  songs.  He  waited  patiently,  a  slight  frown 
settling  on  his  forehead,  for  this  dallying  with  incli- 
nation was  difficult  to  put  up  with.  "  Robin  Adair  " 
was  finally  her  choice.  Enoch  gave  himself  over  to 
tranquil  enjoyment  of  the  plaintive  song  and  Sara- 
rose's  sympathetic  voice. 

"  The  words,  the  words,"  he  reminded  her.  He 
would  not  have  appreciated  the  operatic  style  of  musi- 
cal tones  without  meaning. 

Then,  but  with  much  less  fervor,  Sararose  sang 
through  the  six  stanzas  of  Enoch's  hymn.  Daddy 
drew  his  chair  up  by  Azzy  to  inspect  his  drawing. 

"  E  F  represents  my  diameter,  and  here  A  B  is 
the  wheel." 

"  I  see."  Daddy's  pleased  eyes  took  in  the  dia- 
gram. "  How  big  a  saw  are  you  reckoning  on  ?" 

"  About  seventy.  I've  tried  to  figure  out  some- 
thing larger,  but  of  course  the  rigidity  diminishes 
with  the  diameter." 

"  And  with  the  dimensions  of  the  work,"  Daddy 
added,  his  old  familiarity  with  the  saw-mill  leaving 
him  tags  of  knowledge  which  had  to  be  supplement- 
ed by  Azzy's  careful  explanation,  for  there  had  been 

94 


At   the    Elk    Mountain    Church 

great  improvements  in  wood-working  machinery  since 
Daddy's  day. 

Azzy's  engineering  instincts  and  technical  skill, 
unaided  as  they  were  by  theory,  had  already  taught 
him  the  crudeness  of  the  circular  saw.  He  would 
have  appreciated  the  Russian's  famous  comment  of 
"  Horrible !"  on  a  Centennial  exhibit.  They  were 
deep  in  a  project  of  lateral  support  for  saw-plates, 
and  the  talk  was  all  of  curve  and  tension  and  align- 
ment when  Ab,  buried  in  his  Country  Gentleman, 
emerged  with  a  "  Listen  to  this !" 

Ab's  slow,  dry  humor  found  unfailing  inspiration 
in  the  common  things  of  life.  Unconscious  humor 
was  his  special  delight. 

"  '  Fireside  Chats  for  Boys  and  Girls,'  "  he  read 
aloud.  "  '  Dear  Mr.  Editor, — My  father  takes  your 
paper  and  likes  it,  but  mother  likes  it  better  than 
father.  I  milk  two  cows  and  tend  to  the  milk.  Our 
house  is  on  a  very  nice  little  hill.' ' 

Ab  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  find  out  if  he  had 
listeners,  which,  considering  circumstances,  was  well 
for  his  peace  of  mind.  He  continued: 

"  '  My,  but  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  work  to  keep 
it  clean.  I  agree  with  Flossy  about  dish-washing. 
Me  and  sister  are  keeping  house  for  pa.  I  am  glad 
to  see  spring  coming.  The  little  birds  seem  glad,  as 
they  are  singing  so  sweet  this  morning.  Mary 
Moon.'  " 

Ab  laughed  noiselessly  to  himself  and  turned  a 
page.  Then  looking  up,  he  saw  Sararose  shutting 
the  piano  softly  and  putting  the  hymn-book  away. 
He  gave  her  a  slow,  appreciative  wink,  that  from 
Ab  had  no  particular  meaning,  except  as  a  token 
of  mutual  understanding. 

95 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  Now  for  a  read  from  Dombey  and  Son"  said 
Enoch,  as  Sararose  sat  down  to  her  darning-basket. 

This  to  Daddy,  who  detested  loud  reading,  was  a 
signal  for  bed.  He  was  a  chatty  old  man,  and  Enoch 
was  intolerant  of  interruption.  Sararose  kissed  him 
good-night,  and  Enoch,  with  his  candle,  accompanied 
him  up-stairs.  Daddy  would  have  liked  to  sit  longer 
in  the  lamplight  and  cheer,  studying  Azzy's  diagrams 
or  gossiping  with  Sararose  over  her  work-basket.  But 
Enoch's  sonorous  monotone  and  the  silence  of  his 
circle  of  listeners !  Bed  was  preferable  far.  They 
had  been  reading  for  a  half -hour  or  so,  when  a  knock 
came  at  the  front  door,  and  John  Holme  entered. 

"  Wife  not  well,"  he  said.  "  Been  to  Saranac  for 
medicine.  How  are  you,  Sararose,  after  the  dance  ? 
Hot  old  time,  wasn't  it?" 

"  What,  don't  you  know  of  the  row  ?"  he  asked 
Enoch,  after  more  questions  and  answers  had  been 
exchanged.  "  The  whole  mountain's  up  in  arms  un- 
der the  banners  of  Loiseau  and  Newcome." 

Enoch  glanced  sternly  at  Sararose  as  if  she  were 
somehow  responsible,  and  she  dropped  her  eyes  guilt- 
ily- 

"  Don't  look  at  her !"  cried  John,  bluntly.  "  She's 
not  party  to  the  fight.  It  started  long  before  she  was 
born,  with  old  Si  Newcome's  cow,  strayed  into  Loi- 
seau's  herd.  And  this  evening  it's  come  to  blows  be- 
tween two  of  them." 

"  Not  Tyke  ?"  asked  Sararose. 

"  No,  his  cousin  Pete  and  young  Si  Newcome,  at 
Eddie's.  They  had  to  be  torn  apart.  Mark  my 
word,  boys,  there'll  be  more  trouble  than  blows  out 
o*  that  polka  music  at  Spriggs's  Corners." 

Enoch  paced  up  and  down  the  floor,  his  brow  knit. 
96 


At   the    Elk    Mountain    Church 

Sararose's  trembling  fingers  could  scarcely  direct  the 
needle  back  and  forth  through  her  work.  Affairs  of 
national  importance  are  felt  most  keenly  by  the  in- 
dividual when  they  result  in  some  petty  personal 
inconvenience.  Sararose  foresaw  from  this  news  per- 
sonal consequences  that  would  be  unpleasant.  She 
asked  John  how  the  baby  was. 

"  Baby  well,"  he  replied,  "  fat  as  butter  and 
bright  as  a  button.  Have  her  to-morrow  if  you  want 
her.  I'll  bring  her  to  church  with  me  and  relieve 
Delia." 

John's  two-year-old  baby  was  a  great  pet  at  Enoch's, 
and  she  would  go  to  Enoch  sooner  than  she  would  to 
her  own  father.  But  Enoch  did  not  mind  about  her 
now,  pacing  up  and  down  the  sitting-room,  and  re- 
volving in  his  mind  his  own  responsibility  in  regard 
to  the  feud  newly  arisen.  Enoch  would  have  found 
life  easier  if  he  had  not  borne  so  heavily  responsibil- 
ity for  other  people's  sins. 

"  Saw  you  dancing  with  young  Hollister,"  John 
continued,  in  a  lower  tone,  sitting  down  by  Sararose 
and  playing  with  her  ball  of  wool.  "  Nice  young 
chap.  Good-natured  to  beat  the  band." 

"  Aren't  you  down  at  the  camp  any  more  ?"  asked 
Sararose,  trying  to  make  her  voice  indifferent,  but 
longing  to  hear  more  about  Richard  Hollister. 

"  Not  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  Not  much  doin'  there 
now.  Delia  wants  me  at  home.  I'm  steady  old  mar- 
ried man,  Sararose.  Well,  I  must  be  going.  Good- 
bye!" 

After  all  the  family  were  in  bed,  Enoch  went  out 

to  get  the  freedom  of  the  night  air  and  the  solitude 

of  the  stars.     He  walked  bareheaded  up  and  down 

the  Saranac  road,  under  the  kindly  heaven,  seeking 

G  97 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

the  peace  of  God.  His  sermon  for  the  next  day  came 
to  him  then. 

The  open  windows  of  the  little  Elk  Mountain 
church,  set  above  the  village  on  its  lonely  hill,  framed 
the  exquisitely  lovely  blue  of  distant  ranges.  About 
the  white-porticoed  doorway  the  pines  stood  dark.  In- 
side, the  young  women  of  the  choir  sang.  They  pur- 
sued the  tune  with  unflagging  vigor,  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  the  bitter  end.  When  they  had  finished  and 
had  settled  themselves  back  in  their  seats,  primly 
conscious  of  flower-trimmed  hats  and  cashmere  dress- 
es, Enoch  began  his  sermon,  looking  out  over  his  con- 
gregation with  sad,  fearless  eyes.  The  faces  of  his 
people  were  also  sad,  with  the  dull  indifference  of 
imprisoned  animals. 

When  Enoch  announced  his  text,  "  Behold  how 
good  and  how  pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  to- 
gether in  unity,"  there  was  a  slight  stir  in  the  con- 
gregation. One  of  his  deacons  was  a  Loiseau,  the 
other  a  Newcome.  Some  of  the  old  men  grasped  the 
knobs  of  their  canes  between  their  knees  with  added 
tension,  or  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  glowering  from  un- 
der shaggy,  white  eyebrows.  Most  of  the  old  men 
wore  a  yellow-white  fringe  of  whiskers  about  their 
copper-red,  stubbly  faces.  The  black-clad,  narrow 
backs  of  the  women  grew  more  rigid  as  they  looked 
immovably  ahead  of  them.  In  the  front  row  sat 
Enoch's  brothers  and  Sararose  with  Baby  Jessie. 
The  baby's  fluffy  head  shone  like  a  dandelion  above 
her  white  frock.  As  Enoch  preached  on  brotherly 
love  the  feeling  that  moved  him  was  apostolic.  Baby 
Holme  missed  her  mother  and  was  disturbed  by  the 
unusual  surroundings.  She  decided  to  climb  down 
from  the  seat  and  see  what  there  was  to  play  with 

98 


At   the    Elk    Mountain   Church 

on  the  floor.  She  turned  herself  about  in  preparation 
for  the  downward  slide.  A  little  boy  behind  smiled 
at  her  furtively.  She  threw  him  a  kiss  and  laughed 
back,  when  suddenly,  without  warning,  her  father's 
strong  hands  replaced  her  on  the  seat  beside  him. 
After  a  grieved  moment  of  pouting,  she  decided  to 
cry.  Why  did  every  one  sit  so  quiet,  and  why  did 
uncle,  far  away  above  her,  talk  so  very  loud?  She 
had  better  cry,  and  then  some  one  would  come  and 
play  with  her.  Sararose  tried  to  hush  the  little  reso- 
nant voice,  but  all  in  vain.  Then  a  woman  from 
behind  leaned  over  and  administered,  in  a  terrific 
whisper,  meant  to  be  soothing: 

"  Ain't  ye  ashamed,  baby  ?  Be  a  good  little  gell, 
now." 

Baby  Jessie  burst  into  tears  of  fright,  puzzled 
beyond  comprehension.  To  the  surprise  of  the  con- 
gregation, Enoch  Holme  stepped  from  the  pulpit  and 
took  the  little  morsel  tenderly  into  his  arms.  Jessie 
cooed  with  delight.  A  ride  on  uncle's  shoulder  was 
a  familiar  pastime.  Resuming  his  place  above  the 
people,  he  went  on  with  his  discourse,  baby  nestling 
against  his  breast.  Undoubtedly,  Enoch  Holme  was 
peculiar.  This  incident  alone  would  occasion  more 
discussion  than  a  dozen  affrays  at  Windy  Flanders's. 
It  is  a  serious  thing  to  flout  the  conventions  of  a 
country  neighborhood. 

The  party  from  Colonel  Hollister's  camp,  who  en- 
tered church  somewhat  late,  were  greeted  by  this 
sight:  a  sunburned  man,  roughly  clad,  with  a  baby 
on  his  arm,  preaching  on  brotherly  love.  They  had 
been  anxious  for  a  new  diversion,  and  had  dragooned 
Alison  into  making  one  of  their  number.  They  scat- 
tered themselves  about  among  the  empty  pews,  Ali- 

99 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

son  taking  a  seat  by  herself  near  the  front.  She  was 
genuinely  ashamed  of  their  late  arrival,  and  did  not 
share  the  camp  feeling  that  a  country  church-service 
was  a  spectacular  affair.  Enoch  saw  Alison  and  knew 
her.  With  just  a  slight  break  in  his  voice,  the  sermon 
went  on.  He  could  feel  the  dark  eyes  upraised  to 
his,  and  as  he  met  them  from  time  to  time,  he  drank 
strength  from  their  earnestness. 

"  The  spirit  of  war  is  the  spirit  of  hate,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  spirit  of  hate  is  the  spirit  of  the  devil." 

His  ringing  denunciations  were  strongly  contrasted 
with  the  fatherly  bend  of  his  arm  about  the  sleeping 
babe.  He  laid  her  in  his  own  large  upholstered  chair, 
softer  than  the  hard  pews  of  the  church. 

"  There  are  those  who  call  themselves  followers  of 
the  Lamb,  and  who  will  go  out  from  this  church  this 
morning  with  war  in  their  hearts  against  those  who 
have  in  no  wise  offended  them.  And  the  command 
of  the  Lord  is,  '  Be  ye  at  peace  one  with  another.' ' 

Enoch  inveighed  more  bitterly  against  the  re- 
mote ramifications  of  the  feud  than  against  those 
whose  high  temper  involved  them  in  the  original 
quarrel.  It  was  these  remote  ramifications  that  per- 
petuated ill  feeling  and  poisoned  a  community.  His 
words  caused  an  exchange  of  glances  in  the  audience. 
On  this  point,  at  least,  they  were  solid:  such  open 
allusions  to  local  matters  were  more  than  unbecom- 
ing. They  were  irreverent.  Alison,  unusually  sus- 
ceptible to  undercurrents,  felt  the  tension  of  the  at- 
mosphere, and  conjectured  the  situation. 

"  A  mingling  of  gentleness  and  passion,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  with  the  added  strain  of  courage.  Luther, 
Savonarola,  Lincoln,  were  of  the  same  stuff  as  he." 

She  was  not  given  to  sudden  admirations.  She  had 
100 


At   the   Elk    Mountain    Church 


intellectual  poise  and  the  calmness  of  a  nature  spirit- 
ually rich.  The  sermon  came  to  a  close  amid  a  thun- 
der-breeding quiet. 

"  The  collection  will  now  be  taken,"  said  Enoch. 

Si  Newcome  and  old  Loiseau  .glared  by  turns  at 
each  other  and  at  the  minister.  The  congregation 
waited.  The  situation  was  a  pleasing  one  to  both 
sides  in  the  feud.  The  minister's  mortification  was 
justly  a  boomerang.  The  summer  folks  rustled  a 
little  among  themselves  at  this  inexplicable  delay. 
Alison  determined  to  step  into  the  breach.  She 
glanced  across  the  aisle  to  Dick  Hollister,  and,  catch- 
ing his  eye,  rose  from  her  seat,  with  a  little  motion 
of  her  hand  towards  the  collection  plates.  He  under- 
stood. Together  they  left  their  seats  and  made  the 
usual  circuit  of  the  aisles,  gravely,  between  faces 
that  seethed  with  emotion,  of  resentful  mountain- 
eers and  interested  city  people.  The  girls  of  the 
choir,  forgetting  Enoch's  urgent  wishes,  whispered 
among  themselves. 

"  Ain't  they  an  elegant  pair  ?  Look  at  his  boots 
and  the  way  he  parts  his  hair  in  the  middle!  Her 
dress  ain't  much  to  speak  of,  is  it  ?  Jest  white  muslin 
and  the  black  velvet  round  her  waist.  But  she's  got 
an  air  to  her,  'ain't  she?  Look  how  nice  he  opens 
the  door  of  the  pew  for  her." 

If  the  repressed  excitement  of  the  moment  could 
have  burst  forth  into  ejaculation  and  comment,  what 
a  conversational  explosion  there  would  have  been  in 
that  little  church.  The  service  proceeded ;  the  choir 
hunted  down  and  slaughtered  another  tune.  The 
benediction  was  pronounced,  and  the  congregation 
dispersed.  A  buzz  of  talk  arose  from  the  sheds 
where  the  men  unhitched  their  horses,  while  the 

101 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

women  stood  and  waited.  Alison  and  Enoch  were 
the  last  to  leave  the  church,  and  they  walked  out  to- 
gether, talking. 

"  We  were  not  half  grateful  for  your  rescue  of 
us  the  other  night." 

"  It  was  nothing.  I  was  going  your  way,  in  any 
case." 

Alison's  "  At  last,"  still  rankling  in  Enoch's  heart, 
bade  him  contain  himself. 

"  Alison,  can't  we  induce  Mr.  Holme  to  come 
down  to  the  camp  and  try  pot-luck  with  us  at  din- 
ner?" said  Mrs.  Hollister. 

She  was  a  red-faced,  gracious  lady,  who  loved  to 
patronize  struggling  clergymen  and  shop-girls. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Holme,  I  wish  you  would  do  so,"  urged 
Alison,  in  her  rich  voice. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you,"  Enoch  answered,  "  but  we 
have  Sunday-school  at  two  o'clock,  and  I  must  have 
time  before  it  for  study  and  prayer." 

Dick  Hollister  cast  an  amused  look  at  Alison, 
which  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Quite  right,"  Mrs.  Hollister  said,  encouragingly. 
"  It's  perfectly  proper  for  you  young  ministers  to 
pray  a  great  deal.  It  makes  you  more  spiritual- 
minded.  And  what  a  beautiful  parish  you  have.  You 
are  to  be  congratulated,  Mr.  Holme,  upon  this  lovely 
retreat." 

She  bent  down  from  the  back  seat  and  gave  Enoch 
a  plump,  warm  hand-shake ;  then,  "  Drive  on,  Dick." 

The  camp  wagon  rattled  off.  The  minister,  pur- 
suing his  way  on  foot,  smiled  to  himself  at  the 
thought  of  his  "  retreat,"  in  which  he  had  been  born 
and  brought  up.  In  the  midst  of  the  smile  he  heard 
a  voice  calling  him.  The  Hollisters  had  stopped,  and 

102 


At    the   Elk    Mountain    Church 

Mrs.  Hollister  was  waving  a  regal  summons  to 
him. 

"  We  must  ask  the  young  man  for  tea  on  Tuesday. 
It  will  be  an  opportunity  for  him  to  meet  with  some 
truly  cultured  people.  Don't  you  think  so,  Alison  ?" 

Mrs.  Hollister  had  the  habit  of  referring  to  Miss 
MacDonald,  because  she  approved  of  her  college  train- 
ing and  womanly  reasonableness.  She  herself  sub- 
scribed to  parlor-lectures  on  Egyptology  and  French 
Symbolism,  and  was  an  ardent  disciple  of  a  certain 
majestic  Swami  from  the  Parliament  of  Religions. 

"  Mr.  Holme,"  she  said,  leaning  over  the  back  seat 
and  addressing  the  young  man  as  he  strode  forward, 
"  we  are  going  to  insist  on  your  coming  down  to  the 
camp  the  day  after  to-morrow  and  taking  an  informal 
cup  of  tea  with  us." 

Mrs.  Hollister  liked  to  emphasize  the  simplicity 
of  her  ways  to  those  whose  limited  means  would  in- 
cline them  to  judge  otherwise.  She  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  she  ate  pates-de-foie-gras  with  a 
liveried  butler  behind  her,  and  talked  with  a  spare 
country  minister  or  an  intellectual-browed  teacher  on 
"  plain  living  and  high  thinking." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  that,  Mrs.  Hollister,"  re- 
plied Enoch. 

"  About  four  o'clock,  Mr.  Holme.    Good-bye !" 

Dick,  on  the  front  seat  beside  Alison,  gave  her  a 
sympathetic  pressure  of  the  hand.  He  delighted  in 
the  humorsomeness  of  his  mother's  proteges. 

"  We  shall  look  for  you,"  said  Alison  to  Enoch, 
as  they  drove  off. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Camp    Bohemia 

CAMP  HOLLISTER  had  been  rechristened  Camp  Bo- 
hemia by  some  of  the  younger  generation  who  peo- 
pled it  that  summer.  It  consisted  of  a  group  of 
nouses  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  and  hidden  from  each 
other  by  trees.  Colonel  Hollister's  father,  who  had 
controlled  the  lumber  interests  of  that  section,  had 
built  the  first  house  many  years  before.  It  had  not 
been  a  "  camp  "  then,  although  he  did  not  import 
into  it  Austrian  china  and  Chippendale  chairs,  as 
had  the  Hollisters  of  to-day.  However,  the  name  of 
"  camp  "  was  now  justified  by  white-birch-bark  pan- 
elling, cedar  beams,  a  spinning  -  wheel,  blue  -  jeans 
hangings,  and  an  abundance  of  reed  chairs  and  bal- 
sam pillows  on  the  wide  piazza,  all  of  which  evidences 
of  rusticity  did  not  exist  in  Grandfather  Hollister's 
time.  The  camp  had  been  long  enough  established 
to  boast  of  a  respectable  entourage  of  lawn  above 
rotted  tree  -  roots  and  some  pines  of  noble  girth, 
separated  from  the  dwarfing  proximity  of  their  for- 
est rivals. 

"  Grandfather  Hollister  would  certainly  not  rec- 
ognize us  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Hollister  on  the  piazza, 
cutting  the  pages  of  The  Psychic  World. 

Some  people  from  the  next  house,  a  Hollister 
104 


Camp    Bohemia 

brother's,  were  stringing  past  on  the  lawn,  bizarrely 
accoutred  for  the  mid-day  swim. 

"  Literally  or  socially  ?"  asked  Alison,  rising  to 
join  the  party  on  the  lawn. 

"  Both,  my  dear." 

Edward  Hollister,  Junior,  had  married  an  artist, 
and  they  had  always  a  raft  of  unconventional  people 
about  them.  They  were  off  now  for  "  the  co-educa- 
tional swim,"  as  Alison  called  it. 

"  Our  floating  population  is  fifty  souls,"  said  Dick 
Hollister,  turning  over  lazily  on  his  back  in  the  water 
and  pretending  to  count  the  swimmers. 

"  Then  how  do  I  come  in  ?"  asked  Ysobel  Ruddle, 
who  claimed  to  be  a  materialist  and  a  disbeliever  in 
"  souls." 

"  On  the  side,  of  course,  Ysobel." 

Mrs.  Ruddle  had  just  learned  the  sidewise  swim, 
and  was  practising  it,  her  splendid  arms  and  neck 
dazzlingly  white  against  her  black  silk  bathing-suit, 
which  glistened  like  wet  sealskin.  Richard  swam 
briskly  out  into  the  lake,  meeting  Rathbun,  the  poet, 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  as  was  his  habit,  with  June  Hollis- 
ter in  tow,  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  was  showing 
her  how  to  be  rescued. 

"I  say,  Rathbun!"  Richard  called  out.  "I 
draw  the  line.  Steam  -  tugs  are  not  allowed  in  this 
lake." 

They  were  called  into  shore  by  Lindsay  Nixon,  a 
"  painter  person,"  as  he  called  himself,  who  stood  on 
a  log  and  waved  his  tarn  at  them. 

"  In,  in,  ye  amphibians,"  he  shouted.  "  We  are 
planning  a  function  for  to-morrow." 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  functions,  or  functions 
with  I?"  asked  Mrs.  Ruddle,  sunning  herself  auda- 

105 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

ciously  on  a  log,  while  the  others  scattered  to  their 
bathing-houses. 

"  You  are  still  in  mourning,  Ysobel  ?"  Nixon 
asked,  mischievously. 

Mrs.  Huddle  had  lately  been  separated  from  her 
husband,  and  her  frank  joy  was  a  matter  of  comment, 
even  among  her  friends.  She  had  a  fresh  face  like 
a  boy's,  with  hair  pushed  back  from  a  transparent 
forehead,  and  a  ready  laugh  of  childlike  innocence. 
Her  over-exuberant  figure,  deep-bosomed  and  broad- 
hipped,  with  limbs  heavy  for  her  medium  weight, 
were  out  of  keeping  with  the  charming  boyishness  of 
her  look  and  laugh. 

"  Not  in  mourning,  but  I've  nothing  to  wear, 
Nixie." 

"  Then  wear  it,"  drawled  Nixon.  "  It's  the  most 
becoming  thing  you  have." 

She  threw  a  pebble  at  him  and  vanished  into  a 
bathing-house,  her  hair  tumbling  down  her  back. 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  Brittany  tea,"  Nixon  explained 
later,  as  they  strolled  back  to  luncheon.  "  I  have 
some  delightful  coifs  with  me,  and  if  there  aren't 
enough,  others  are  easily  made.  What  I  have  with 
me  may  serve  as  models." 

"  You'll  be  head  coiffeur,  I  presume,"  said  Alison, 
smiling. 

"  I  cut  if  you  finish,  Alison." 

Richard  remonstrated. 

"  They're  finished  if  Alison  gets  at  them,  Nixon." 

Her  aversion  to  needle-work  was  well  known. 

"  Wide  white  collars,  flaring  head  -  dress,  short 
black  skirts;  quite  chic,  eh,  Rathbun?" 

"  What  do  the  men  wear  ?"  asked  Alison. 

"  If  we  cut  down  those  Manila  shade-hats  you  girls 
106 


Camp    Bohemia 

have  been  sporting,  we  shall  do  admirably,  thank 

you." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  cried  the  girls. 

"  We  shall  wear  velvet  streamers  around  them  and 
keep  them  on  our  heads  while  we  pass  the  tea,"  Nixon 
continued,  calmly. 

He  was  a  tall,  pale  fellow,  with  a  smooth,  narrow 
face  and  dust-colored  hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  and 
overlong  for  the  fashion. 

"  Tea !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  men.  "  We  should 
have  cider." 

"  And  sardines." 

"  And  bagpipes." 

"  And  babas." 

"  And  the  gavotte,"  added  one  and  another  of 
the  Bohemians  who  had  been  together  in  Paris 
winters,  and  done  Volendam,  Pont  -  Aven,  and 
the  usual  artists'  preserves  during  several  summers 
together. 

u  And  a  Concarneau  fisherman  drunk,"  cried  Yso- 
bel,  showing  all  her  pretty  teeth  in  an  innocent  laugh 
as  they  passed  in  front  of  Colonel  Hollister's  piazza. 
They  separated  in  a  whirl  of  merriment. 

The  camp  was  quiet  for  a  few  hours  while  the 
ladies  busily  improvised  Breton  -  peasant  costumes. 
Alison  and  Richard,  in  a  cosey  nook  of  their  own,  the 
out-door  studio,  put  their  heads  together  over  a  bride- 
groom's costume.  There  was  a  gorgeous  vest  of 
chamois  skin  with  black  velvet  applied  in  Brittany 
patterns.  Richard  offered  to  read  aloud,  and  went 
to  the  house  in  search  of  literature. 

He  returned  with  a  crestfallen  expression  and 
Lockhart's  Spanish  Ballads. 

"  Ysobel  and  Kitty  have  walked  oft  with  every- 

107 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

thing  naughty,  June  has  swooped  up  everything  new. 
There  was  nothing  left  but  this." 

"  '  Ruy  Cid,  my  Campeador,'  "  said  Alison,  turn- 
ing the  pages.  "  Dick,  I  wish  we  had  lived  then, 
and  you  had  been  Rodrigo." 

"  And  you  Ximena !" 

"  And  how  gallantly  you  would  have  fought  the 
Saracens,  and  all  the  people  hailed  you,  my  Cid." 

"  And  you  waited  for  me  in  lace  and  flowers  at 
your  latticed  window." 

"  Dear  me,  it  would  have  been  dull  waiting," 
sighed  Alison. 

"  I  rather  think  it  is  jollier  this  way,"  exclaimed 
Richard,  throwing  himself  on  the  rustic  floor  by  Ali- 
son's feet  and  smiling  at  her  as  her  busy  needle  flew 
in  and  out. 

"  Please  stand  up  a  minute.  I  want  to  try  this 
on." 

"  Stop  laughing  at  me,"  said  Richard,  aggrieved. 

"  You  are  too  deliciously  funny  in  that  yellow 
waistcoat  over  your  outing  flannels,  my  Cid !" 

Nevertheless,  Richard  took  an  unfair  advantage 
of  Alison's  proximity  as  she  fitted  the  seams,  an  ad- 
vantage which  she  did  not  fail  to  rebuke.  They  were 
plighted  in  marriage,  but  the  coquetry  of  refusal  had 
still  its  charms. 

"  Read  one  of  the  ballads." 

"  You  are  Spanish  ballad  enough  for  me,"  said 
Richard,  lazily,  bestowing  the  cushions  comfortably 
beneath  him  on  the  floor. 

The  summer  studio  had  been  put  up  by  Ned  Hoi- 
lister,  the  artist.  It  was  a  delightful  little  structure 
on  an  out-of-the-way  knoll,  built  of  birch-boles,  with 
rough,  open  windows  through  which  the  vines  clam- 

108 


Camp    Bohemia 

bered  in  and  a  young  pine  -  tree  thrust  its  plumes. 
Alison  wore  a  corn  -  colored  gown  of  some  fluttery 
stuff,  and  she  had  thrown  a  black  scarf  about  her 
head.  The  cream  of  her  skin  and  the  black  of  her 
grape-vine  hair  were  set  off  with  distinction.  Rich- 
ard preferred  this  picture  between  the  clematis  vines 
to  Lockhart. 

"  Why  do  you  wear  that  scarf  ?"  he  asked,  indo- 
lently. 

"  Spiders,"  answered  Alison,  briefly,  planning  a 
complicated  design. 

"  Now  don't  tell  me  it's  spiders,"  smiled  Rich- 
ard, so  happy  in  his  admiration  that  he  could  not  re- 
frain from  carping.  "  You  know  perfectly  well  it's 
the  most  becoming  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Read  to  me,"  answered  Alison,  irrelevantly. 

"  Throat's  hoarse." 

"  Now  don't  tell  me  it's  hoarseness,"  Alison  laugh- 
ed. "  You  know  perfectly  well  you're  the  laziest 
thing  in  the  world." 

Richard  plunged  defiantly  into  a  ballad: 

"  Since  for  kissing  thee,  Minguillo, 

Mother  scolds  me  all  the  day, 
Let  me  have  it  quickly,  darling, 
Give  me  back  my  kiss,  I  pray." 


a 

lister. 


I  say,  that's  not  half  bad,"  exclaimed  young  Hol- 
;r. 


"  If  we  have  done  aught  amiss, 

Let's  undo  it  while  we  may, 
Quickly  give  me  back  the  kiss, 

That  she  may  have  naught  to  say." 
109 


The  Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  Ah,  but  you're  not  Minguillo,  and  you've  made 
me  lose  my  needle,"  rippled  Alison,  reprovingly. 

"Do — she  keeps  so  great  a  pother, 

Chides  so  sharply,  looks  so  grave; 
Do,  my  love,  to  please  my  mother, 
Give  me  back  the  kiss  I  gave. 

"  Out  upon  you,  false  Minguillo ! 

One  you  give  but  two  you  take; 
Give  me  back  the  two,  my  darling, 
Give  them  for  my  mother's  sake!" 

They  heard  footsteps  outside  among  the  bushes. 

"  What  are  you  two  conspiring  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Ned,  appearing  with  her  easel  at  the  rustic  door. 

"  Something  in  your  line,"  said  Richard,  gravelyj 
"  illustrating  Spanish  ballads." 


CHAPTER  IX 
A   Cup   of  Tea 

ALISON  was  deputed  to  bake  the  crepes,  which  were 
relied  upon  to  give  the  final  touch  of  reality. 

"  They  must  be  yellow  and  worm-eaten-looking," 
Nixie  instructed  her  as  she  beat  up  the  batter  in  the 
kitchen,  "  like  woollen  lace,  you  know." 

"  Delightful,"  laughed  Alison,  "  and  how  large  ?" 

He  indicated  vaguely  with  his  hands. 

"  About  like  the  moon,  the  rising  moon,  for  size, 
and  they  must  taste  like  rancid  leather." 

"  You  should  really  bring  out  a  cook-book,  Nixie ; 
your  directions  are  so  explicit." 

The  cook  pulled  his  tins  of  babas  from  the  oven, 
and  the  artist  stood  over  him  to  see  that  the  rum  ab- 
sorbed was  sufficient  in  quantity. 

"  Enough  ?"  queried  Alison,  pouring  on  the  round 
soapstone  griddle  the  foamy  batter.  It  spluttered 
and  heaved  up  in  satisfactory  bubbles. 

"  More,  more.  There !"  Nixon  tipped  the  bowl 
backward  as  the  batter  filled  the  circumference  of  the 
griddle  and  began  to  cake  at  the  edges. 

"  But  I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  be  too  good,  too  good 
to  be  true,"  he  declared,  breaking  off  a  flake  that 
crimped  over  the  side  of  the  griddle. 

"  That's  the  first  compliment  you've  paid  me." 
Ill 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

Alison,  with  white  sleeves  turned  back  from  her 
round  arms  and  her  clear  pallor  tinged  with  rose  from 
the  heat  of  the  stove,  was  the  picture  of  domesticity. 

"  I  didn't  mean  it  for  a  compliment,  I  assure  you, 
Miss  MacDonald,"  he  returned,  gravely. 

Nixie,  who  was  sincere  and  simple,  had  also  the 
vice  of  his  virtue  and  prided  himself  on  his  inaptness 
at  pretty  phrases.  He  looked  at  Alison  boldly,  as 
she  pried  up  the  cake  to  see  if  it  were  browning. 

"  I  declare,  you  would  do  for  a  magazine  advertise- 
ment of  somebody's  baking-powder,"  he  told  her. 

"  If  I  were  in  an  illustration  I  shouldn't  have  such 
trouble  in  turning  this  cake.  Put  your  knife  under 
the  opposite  side.  Yes,  one,  two,  three!" 

He  whistled  as  the  great  cake  flapped  incoherently 
over.  "  It's  as  ticklish  as  the  last  line  of  a  sonnet." 

"  Isn't  one  crepe  enough  ?" 

Alison  sat  down  in  mock  despair,  her  black  hair 
crinklier  than  usual  with  the  heat  of  the  kitchen. 

"  I  will  bake  the  next  one,  Miss  MacDonald,  while 
you  go  and  dress." 

"  Mind  you  don't  touch  the  babas." 

She  shook  her  finger  at  him  as  she  left  the  kitchen. 

"  You  young  people  are  very  mysterious  about  this 
afternoon's  entertainment,"  said  Mrs.  Hollister  to 
Alison. 

They  stood  in  the  great  square  hall  before  the 
glass  of  the  chimney  shelf.  Richard  was  pinning  to- 
gether for  Alison  the  flaring  loops  that  curve  outward 
in  the  Concarneau  coif.  He  was  very  deft  with  his 
fingers. 

"  It's  only  a  peasant  affair,  mother." 

"  There's  something  more  afoot,"  said  Mrs.  Hol- 
lister, comfortably  rocking  herself  in  her  favorite 

112 


A   Cup    of  Tea 


chair.  She  knew  that  the  younger  generation  were 
planning  a  surprise,  and  she  loved  to  fall  in  with 
their  mood.  She  was  one  of  those  agreeable  persons 
who  take  pains  to  guess  generously  high  when  one 
boasts  of  a  bargain. 

"  I  only  hope  that  it  isn't  anything  too  outrageous. 
We  mustn't  forget  that  our  young  preacher  is  to  be 
with  us  this  afternoon.  One  never  knows  what  to 
expect  when  Ysobel  Kuddle  has  her  finger  in  the 
pie." 

Richard  laughed  appreciatively.  One  was  apt  to 
laugh  at  Ysobel,  and  with  her,  too,  though  one  might 
regret  it  afterwards. 

"  I  know,"  assented  Alison.  "  I  always  catch  my 
breath  for  fear  she  goes  over  the  edge." 

"  That's  the  fun  of  her,"  cried  Richard,  laughing 
again. 

"  You  look  so  absurdly  pious,"  said  Alison,  putting 
her  hands  on  Richard's  shoulders  and  smiling  up  at 
him  with  proprietary  affection.  "  Like  an  overgrown 
Sunday-school  boy,  Dick." 

"  Stop  laughing  at  me,"  he  replied,  tenderly. 
"  You  little — Madonna." 

He  kissed  her  cheek  as  she  leaned  on  his  shoulder 
a  moment. 

There  were  tables  set  under  the  trees  and  on  the 
piazza,  and  the  older  people  from  the  four  houses 
were  gathered  about  them  when  Enoch  Holme,  in  his 
loose  black  clothes  and  straw  hat,  came  striding  down 
the  camp  road.  Notwithstanding  exterior  rusticity, 
there  was  no  rustic  self-consciousness  in  his  manner, 
and  the  sense  of  power  he  carried  made  him  a  com- 
manding presence  even  among  cosmopolites.  Colonel 
Hollister,  a  thin,  clerical  -  looking  man,  with  small, 
H  113 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

shrewd  eyes,  iron-gray,  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  a 
firm,  benevolent  mouth,  knew  him  and  welcomed  him. 
Mrs.  Hollister  added  her  exuberant  hospitality.  He 
was  introduced  to  Edward  Hollister,  a  brother.  He 
was  a  portly  man,  with  silvered  hair,  oblong,  brown 
eyes,  with  heavy  circles  under  them,  a  deeply  lined 
face,  and  lips  that  curved  downward  like  a  half- 
ellipse. 

"  The  young  folks  will  soon  be  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Hollister.  "  They  are  giving  us  a  little  spectacle  to- 
day, Mr.  Holme  —  Breton  costumes  and  so  forth, 
French  peasants,  you  know.  Some  of  your  painter 
people  set  them  off,  Edward." 

Edward  smiled  enigmatically.  He  was  a  phleg- 
matic man,  with  a  reputation  for  wisdom,  which  he 
maintained  by  much  silence  and  an  interrupted, 
oracular  utterance. 

"  How  large  a  Sunday  -  school  have  you,  Mr. 
Holme  ?"  Mrs.  Hollister  chirruped.  "  Twenty- 
seven  ?  That's  a  nice  little  number.  You  visit  them 
in  their  homes,  of  course,  and  know  the  families. 
That's  wise.  I  always  tell  my  young  friends  who 
choose  the  ministry  that  they  must  get  hold  of 
these  people  through  the  children.  It's  more 
and  more  recognized,  Mr.  Holme,  by  our  edu- 
cators that  the  child  is  the  important  factor 
in  progress.  You  have  not  read  Froebel  ?  Mary, 
dear,  bring  auntie  the  red  book  on  her  dress- 
ing -  table.  I  initiated  the  Reverend  John  Willis 
Harold  to  the  study  of  Froebel,  and  he  says  he  has 
found  it  of  immense  advantage.  You  read  German, 
Mr.  Holme?" 

It  was  generally  known  that  Mrs.  Hollister's  ques- 
tions had  not  the  commonplace  purpose  of  eliciting 

114 


A   Cup    of  Tea 


answers.  She  continued  with  a  fluent  fusillade  of 
mingled  autobiography  and  advice. 

"  You  prepare  your  sermons  in  writing,  do  you 
not  ?  I  think  it  is  much  better  to  do  so,  especially  for 
a  young  preacher.  A  very  brilliant  man  may  afford 
to  improvise.  How  are  you  off  for  books?  Is  your 
library  well  stocked  ?  If  you  are  in  town  during  the 
winter  and  will  give  me  the  pleasure  of  a  call,  I 
should  like  to  let  you  have  some  excellent  works, 
sermons  and  commentaries.  I  have  always  a  supply 
on  my  shelves." 

A  sound  of  distant  bagpipes  came  from  among  the 
trees.  A  string  of  Breton  peasants  danced  into  view, 
black  and  white,  gay-aproned,  orange-vested,  twirling 
hand  in  hand  through  the  figures  of  the  "  badoise." 
Their  leader  was  a  figure  in  a  boy's  blue  sailor  suit. 
The  jacket  and  trousers,  that  should  have  been  loose, 
were  moulded  to  bountiful  outlines.  A  red  -  lined 
cape,  half  concealing  the  shoulders  and  bust,  swayed 
in  a  maudlin  fashion  with  the  reckless  motion  of  the 
wearer. 

"  Ysobel  Ruddle,  as  I  am  alive,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Hollister  to  Edward,  "  and  in  your  Willie's  clothes." 

The  brothers  adjusted  their  spectacles,  too  much 
interested  to  respond.  Mrs.  Hollister  put  up  a  hor- 
rified lorgnette.  Ysobel  led  them  in  and  out  of  the 
quaint  Breton  dance  with  grace  and  vivacity.  Her 
glossy  brown  hair  was  pushed  back  under  her  large 
hat  and  fell  about  her  ears  in  peasant  locks. 

"  What  a  versatile  creature  she  is,"  exclaimed  Ed- 
ward Hollister,  admiring  her  despite  himself.  "  I 
believe  she's  an  adept  at  every  national  dance,  and 
there's  not  a  language  she  hasn't  a  smattering  of." 

"  Have  vou  seen  her  do  the  Hawaiian  '  hula ' 
115 


The  Strength  of  the    Hills 

dance  ?"  asked  one  of  the  ladies,  also  in  a  low  voice, 
for  no  one  was  quite  sure  how  openly  this  escapade 
would  be  recognized. 

"  Yes,  and  the  '  Sevillaiia/  "  added  another. 

"  What  a  beautiful  boy,"  Enoch  was  saying  to  Mrs. 
Hollister.  A  puzzling  silence  followed. 

"  Now !"  cried  Ysobel,  in  her  clear  contralto, 
breaking  away  from  the  line,  which  dispersed  in 
groups  under  the  trees.  She  looked  at  Richard  man- 
datorily.  He  started  in  with  a  sailor's  hornpipe  on 
his  banjo.  Ysobel  fell  into  the  steps  with  abandon, 
singing  some  strange  guttural  melody. 

"  Old  Breton !"  exclaimed  Rathbun  to  June  Hoi- 
lister  as  they  stood  watching  her. 

She  was  beginning  to  roll  and  reel  with  unneces- 
sary faithfulness  to  the  type  and  delightedly  aware 
of  growing  disapproval  on  the  faces  of  some  of  the 
older  people.  Enoch  perceived  an  air  of  restraint 
about  the  comments  on  this  boy's  performance  and 
was  mystified. 

"  For  the  love  of  decency,  don't  let  him  know  it's 
a  woman,"  whispered  Mrs.  Hollister  to  Alison,  who 
stood  behind  her  chair.  Alison  motioned  to  Richard 
to  stop  playing. 

"  You  must  be  tired,"  she  cried,  approaching  Yso- 
bel as  the  banjo  ceased  and  putting  her  hand  on 
Ysobel's  arm.  Ysobel  consented  to  Alison's  tacit  sug- 
gestion, and  the  two  started  for  the  house  together. 

"  Clever  little  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Ned,  as  Ysobel 
passed  her. 

Ysobel  paused  as  she  went  by  the  group  of  which 
Enoch  was  a  member.  She  swept  her  hat  from  her 
head  with  a  rollicking  gesture,  and  her  long  hair  fell 
about  her  shoulders  and  half  over  her  face  as  she 

116 


A    Cup    of  Tea 


bowed  low.     She  presented  her  hat  mockingly,  beg- 
ging: 

"  Pourboire,  messieurs,  pourboire,"  and  then  ran 
up  the  piazza  steps  like  a  naughty  child  from  punish- 
ment. 

"  Good  Lord  !"  ejaculated  Edward,  Senior. 

Mrs.  Hollister  as  a  reactant  plunged  into  a  discus- 
sion of  Buddhism  with  Enoch  Holme.  Servants 
came  out  with  tea-trays,  and  peasant  folk  began  to 
pass  crepes  and  babas. 

"  Babas,"  said  a  voice  on  one  side  of  Mrs.  Hollis- 
ter. 

"  Crepes,"  on  the  other. 

A  girl  had  the  buckwheat  cakes  rolled  up,  peasant 
fashion,  in  her  purple  apron.  She  drew  one  out  and 
offered  to  tear  a  section  for  Mr.  Holme.  It  pulled 
apart  like  thick  brown  paper. 

"  So  this  is  your  work,  Nixie,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Edward  Hollister,  nibbling  at  a  tough  edge. 

"  I,  too,  have  not  been  idle,"  he  returned.  Then 
every  one  laughed. 

"  I  can't  say  I  like  it,"  Edward  Hollister,  Senior, 
replied  to  some  one  who  had  brought  him  the  rum- 
soaked  sponge  cake. 

"  But  you  like  the  spirit  in  which  it's  brought,  eh, 
Mr.  Hollister  ?"  said  a  stout  lady. 

Every  one  laughed  again.  Enoch,  following  the 
desultory  conversation  about  him,  felt  less  at  home 
than  if  he  had  been  among  Fiji  Islanders.  A  big 
punch  -  bowl  had  been  set  on  the  broad,  flat  stump 
which  generally  served  as  a  tea-table.  They  were  dip- 
ping something  red  from  it.  Near  by  on  a  table  was 
the  lemonade  bowl.  June  Hollister  stood  between,  a 
ladle  in  each  hand. 

117 


The  Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  Do  have  some  civilized  tea  and  biscuit,  Mr. 
Holme,"  said  Alison.  "  Don't  attempt  these  heathen 
devices."  Some  one  had  given  him  a  plate  of  babas, 
which  he  would  not  touch  on  account  of  its  spirituous 
complement. 

"  Why  do  you  pass  me  by  ?"  said  Richard,  plaint- 
ively, as  Ysobel  sailed  along,  rehabilitated  in  gauzy 
blue,  "  cut  low  for  comfort,  not  for  the  mountains, 
she  averred. 

Richard  was  the  centre  of  a  group  of  animated 
girls. 

"  How  many  satellites  does  your  Dickship  re- 
quire ?" 

"  Let  'em  all  come." 

In  a  pause  of  conversation,  Enoch  heard  this  an- 
swer and  the  ripple  of  appreciation  that  greeted  it. 
He  would  have  liked  to  relax  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
relaxation,  but  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes  he  had 
been  vainly  endeavoring  to  gain  foothold  for  conver- 
sation. By  the  time  he  had  thought  of  an  appro- 
priate addition  to  the  talk,  the  topic  had  changed,  and 
he  had  to  get  his  bearings  again.  He  was  puzzled  by 
unfinished  and  cabalistic  speeches,  all  of  which  seem- 
ed to  have  the  knack  of  evoking  laughter.  In  fact, 
he  had  never  been  among  people  whose  laughter  was 
so  idiotically  frequent  and  inapropos. 

"  Listen,  listen,"  cried  Ysobel  Ruddle,  clapping 
her  hands.  "  Mr.  Rathbun  improvises.  Let  us  catch 
the  crumbs." 

The  red-bearded  poet  stood  on  the  outer  edge  of  her 
circle,  reciting. 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?"  said  June. 

"  You  know  Gardner  Smith,  who  calls  himself  an 
artist?" 

118 


A   Cup    of  Tea 

".  And  he  lisps." 

"  Let's  have  those  first  lines  again,  Rathbun." 

"  Thereth  a  young  painter  perthon  named  Smith, 
Whoth  paintingth  are  thomewhat  a  myth," 

recited  Rathbun  with  grotesque  solemnity. 

"  I  didn't  catch  the  last  line,  either,"  said  Richard. 

"  Though  what  he  doth  beth  ith  to  kith," 

repeated  Rathbun,  turning  his  back  on  the  group. 

"  Lovely,"  Ysobel  cried.  "  I  dare  you  to  fit  a 
rhyme  to  my  name,  Kitty."  Kitty  was  her  favorite 
epithet  for  the  poet  Rathbun,  because,  she  said,  he 
belonged  to  the  Angora  school  of  writers.  The  con- 
versation became  decentralized  again,  while  Rathbun 
on  a  log  meditated  gloomily. 

"  You've  stumped  him,  Ysobel,"  cried  Dick. 

"  Do  you  refer  to  his  seat  ?"  she  tossed  back. 

Rathbun  was  unheeding  of  the  pleasantries.  Ali- 
son sipped  her  tea  by  Enoch  Holme,  and  the  stout 
lady  descanted  on  spiritualism.  She  had  blond  hair, 
imprisoned  by  a  fine  net  over  her  forehead,  a  dry, 
powdery  skin,  and  glass  blue  eyes  surrounded  with 
delicate  radiating  wrinkles. 

"  There  is  certainly  more  to  this  new  development 
than  you  orthodox  people  are  willing  to  admit,"  she 
said,  politely  including  Enoch  Holme  in  her  would- 
be  mystical  gaze.  "  We  must  not  shut  our  eyes  to 
the  truth,  and,  of  course,  every  one  admits  that  the 
science  of  mind  is  far  better  understood  in  the  East 
than  in  the  West." 

When  a  stout  woman  begins  on  spiritualism  she 
can  no  more  be  checked  than  a  wild  mustang. 

119 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  Mrs.  Davenant — you  know  her,  Mrs.  Hollister, 
she  read  a  paper  before  our  Abracadabra  Circle  on  the 
subjective  mind — has  done  some  wonderful  things 
for  me,  wonderful,  since  my  husband  died." 

The  stout  lady's  voice  became  sentimental,  and  she 
held  a  duchess-trimmed  handkerchief  in  readiness. 
"  I  have  received  messages  from  poor  dear  Anson 
that  were  as  like  him  as  possible." 

"  Is  she  the  medium  who  is  particularly  in  touch 
with  the  Greek  philosophers  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hollister. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  was  the  mournful  answer.  The  stout 
lady  was  piqued  at  being  swerved  from  poor  dear 
Anson  before  the  tears  had  come. 

"  Oh,  I  know  her,"  said  Alison,  in  clear,  smiling 
tones.  "  Some  one  asked  her  for  a  message  from 
Cantharides,  and  he  spoke  with  all  the  wisdom  in 
the  ancients." 

"  Silence,"  commanded  Dick  Hollister,  standing 
some  distance  away.  "  After  a  lucid  interval,  Rath- 
bun  relapses." 

"  Go  ahead,  Kitty,"  called  Ysobel  Ruddle,  her  face 
frankly  wreathed  with  smiles. 

Rathbun  began  sonorously: 

"  There's  a  daring  young  person  named  Huddle, 
With  poses  the  brain  to  befuddle. 
She's  a  tableau  vivant, 
And  a  cafe  chantant, 
But  what  she  does  best  is  to  cuddle." 

There  was  an  instantaneous  burst  of  enthusiastic 
approval,  the  last  line  especially  seeming  to  touch  a 
familiar  string  by  the  buzz  of  merry  talk  that  ensued. 
Ysobel  herself  laughed  more  gleefully  than  any  of 
them. 

120 


A   Cup    of  Tea 


"Oh,  dear,"  thought  Alison,  "what  will  Mr. 
Holme  think  of  us  all  ?" 

She  glanced  furtively  at  his  face.  The  calm,  keen 
blue  eves  travelled  from  Rathbun  to  Mrs.  Ruddle  and 
back  again.  He  wondered  if  a  gathering  of  Elk 
Mountain  people  would  offer  as  much  unintelligibil- 
ity  to  an  outsider  as  did  this  gathering  to  him. 

"  After  all,"  the  stout  lady  continued,  "  this  elim- 
ination of  desire  is  a  beautiful  thought.  The  root 
of  human  unhappiness  is  discontent,  is  it  not,  Mr. 
Holme  ?" 

"  It  is  sin,"  answered  Enoch  in  a  practical  voice. 
He  did  not  know  how  much  out  of  fashion  "  sin  "  and 
"  stubborn-heartedness  "  were. 

"  Oh,  but  sin,  Mr.  Holme,  what  is  the  root  of 
that  2"  The  argument  proceeded  glibly.  "  Discon- 
tent again,  malice,  envy,  jealousy,  all  the  failings 
that  we  poor  creatures  fall  heir  to,  even  the  coarser 
crimes,  theft,  forgery,  murder — are  they  not  insti- 
gated by  inordinate  desire  ?" 

She  paused  rhetorically  and  was  surprised  by 
Enoch's  answer. 

"  Madam,  the  instigator  is  the  devil." 

The  devil,  except  as  a  climax  for  after-dinner  wit, 
had  so  long  been  relegated  to  her  limbo  of  things  un- 
fashionable, along  with  hoop-skirts,  prayer-meetings, 
and  the  wide,  wide  world,  that  both  ladies  started. 
Then  she  gathered  herself  together  with  renewed 
courage.  What  an  opportunity  it  was  for  opening 
the  eyes  of  this  narrow  and  dogmatic  young  preacher 
to  the  sweet  vague  of  the  new  religion  and  also  for 
sharpening  her  own  intellectual  claws  upon  the  bark 
of  his  rustic  ignorance. 

"  By  the  devil,  Mr.  Holme,  the  Syrian  fanatic  sym- 
121 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

bolizes  the  forces  of  evil  within  us  which  drag  us 
downward.  We  pass  through  our  various  phases  of 
existence,  from  short  -  lived  protozoans,  up  through 
higher  animal  life,  till  we  become  what  we  now  are, 
sentient  human  beings,  all  the  while  conquering  and 
outliving  these  troublesome  forces,  this  mythical 
devil.  At  last  we  shall  be  Christs,  when  we  have  suc- 
ceeded in  eliminating  desire." 

Enoch's  silence  convinced  her  of  victory.  In 
truth,  having  taken  her  measure,  although  she  was  to 
him  a  new  type,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  a 
fool  should  be  answered  according  to  his  folly. 

"  To  eliminate  desire,  that  should  be  our  strong 
desire.  That  is  our  salvation." 

She  waved  a  fan  slowly  to  and  fro,  in  placid  con- 
sciousness of  her  invincible  argument. 

"  How  about  the  desire  to  eliminate  desire  ?"  asked 
Enoch.  The  stout  lady  changed  the  subject. 

"  That  was  cruel  of  you,  Mr.  Holme,"  laughed 
Alison,  leading  the  way  to  the  out-door  studio,  "  but 
it  is  the  only  good  thing  that's  been  said  this  after- 
noon." 

They  passed  Richard,  sitting  on  Ysobel's  cape  and 
listening  to  one  of  her  audacious  stories.  "  To  where, 
beyond  these  voices,  there  is  peace,"  said  Alison,  as 
they  entered  the  rustic  dor>r. 


CHAPTER  X 
In    the    Studio 

A  MIGRATORY  blue-bird,  on  a  blackberry  vine  by 
the  door  of  the  studio,  sat  and  swung.  He  poured 
his  little  heart  out  on  the  dreamy  bar  of  afternoon 
sun. 

"  Listen,  he  is  singing  of  the  north  woods,"  said 
Alison,  "  of  this  wilderness  he  is  leaving." 

"  It  sounds  to  me  like  a  song  of  the  future,"  Enoch 
replied. 

"  Far-away,  far-away,"  warbled  the  bluebird. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?"  Alison  said.  "  That  is  the  past, 
already  so  far  away." 

"  Which  is  farther — the  past  or  the  future  ?"  asked 
Enoch,  smiling  at  Alison's  quaint,  unconscious  gest- 
ure. 

Alison  shut  her  eyes  hard  to  make  herself  feel  like 
a  point  in  space. 

"  The  past,  even  yesterday,  is  miles  behind  me, 
miles  and  miles;  I  cannot  even  touch  it.  But  here 
is  the  future — right  here  in  front — " 

Still,  with  shut  eyes,  she  reached  out  a  hand  to 
catch  at  the  vague  motes  in  the  sunshine.  It  occurred 
to  Enoch  to  put  himself  before  her,  as  the  future 
upon  which  she  should  open  her  eyes.  Then  he 
thought  of  the  little  memorandum  in  his  pocket-book, 

123 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

and  that  he  did  not  yet  know  her  well  enough  to 
confess  his  temerity. 

"  How  do  you  see  things,  Mr.  Holme  ?  Has  every- 
thing color  and  shape  and  dimension  ?" 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Enoch,  feel- 
ing distinctly  clod  -  like  beside  this  curious  young 
person. 

"  Abstract  ideas,  names,  dates.  Now  the  multipli- 
cation-table has  always  been  to  me  a  trellis  built  in 
squares,  with  the  numbers  like  little  black  devils  run- 
ning nimbly  up  and  down." 

"  Is  it  so,  indeed  ?"  said  Enoch,  wondering  which 
one  of  them  had  gone  demented. 

"  And  the  alphabet,"  continued  Alison,  "  is  a  tall 
old  locust-tree,  with  the  letters  hanging  on  like  queer- 
shaped  fruit,  and  Z  at  the  very  tip-top." 

Alison  took  delight  at  times  in  bewildering  people, 
but  Enoch,  catching  the  twinkle  in  her  eye,  laughed 
sympathetically. 

"  You  are  very  —  " 

"  Quaint,"  supplied  Alison,  demurely. 

"  Different,"  finished  Enoch.  "  But  why  should 
the  end  of  the  alphabet  be  at  the  top  ?" 

"  I  wonder.  Perhaps  it  is  the  hardest  and  the 
last  to  learn. 


"  '  Like  the  sweet  apple  which  reddens  upon  the  topmost 

bough, 
Atop  on   the  topmost   twig  —  which   the   pluckers   forgot 

somehow, 
Forgot  it  not,  nay,  but  got  it  not,  for  none  could  get  it 

till  now.'  " 

"Whose?" 

124 


In    the   Studio 

"  I  believe  Sappho's.  But  I  shouldn't  quote  her 
to  you/'  said  Alison,  mischievously,  "  violet-weaving, 
softly  smiling  Sappho !" 

"  Am  I  so — so — 

"  Different  ?"  said  Alison,  again  mischievously. 

"  I  suppose  I  am,"  Enoch  replied.  "  But  then  you 
are,  also.  Don't  two  differences  make  similarity  ?" 

Alison  laughed. 

"  I  am  not  such  a  clod  after  all,"  inwardly  re- 
joiced Enoch  in  his  folly. 

There  was  some  further  chaff  between  them,  the 
fragile  barrier  between  a  man  and  a  woman  mutually 
attracted.  A  wall  of  commonplace  grew  between 
them  till  Enoch  asked : 

"  What  is  the  color  and  shape  of  "  —he  had  it  in 
his  mind  to  finish  with  love — "  of  friendship  ?" 

He  broke  off  a  spray  of  clematis-silk,  green  and 
fuzzy,  that  tormented  his  ear,  and  laid  it  in  Alison's 
lap.  She  let  the  loving  tendrils  coil  around  her  first 
finger.  The  wall  between  them  fast  crumbled. 

"  What  is  the  color  and  shape  of  friendship  ?"  Ali- 
son smilingly  replied,  lifting  her  finger  in  its 
silken  sheathing.  "  The  fitting  of  one  temper  to  an- 
other." 

Then  she  saw  a  look  in  Enoch's  eyes  that  caused 
her  to  ask,  with  amusing  irrelevance, 

"  Do  you  like  music,  Mr.  Holme  ?" 

"  Very  much.  You  ?"  he  was  compelled  to  add  in 
his  turn  another  stone  to  the  wall. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  am  a  listener,  not  a  performer.  When 
June  plays  the  '  Invitation  to  Waltz  '  or  the  '  Moon- 
light Sonata,'  I  float  away  on  a  wonderful  sea  to  such 
a  land!  I  ask  her  what  her  thoughts  are  when  her 
fingers  have  such  magic,  and  she  says,  '  That  I  had 

125 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

screwed  the  piano-stool  one  turn  higher.'  Extraordi- 
nary, isn't  it  ?" 

From  this  the  talk  went  ranging  till  it  came 
back  to  music  and  to  Sararose.  Alison  had  heard  her 
sing  and  thought  she  had  a  voice  of  unusual  prom- 
ise. A  musical  education  for  her  was  discussed,  and 
Enoch  expressed  his  desire  that  she  should  win  dis- 
tinction and  give  her  voice  to  the  service  of  God. 

"  By  which  you  mean,  I  suppose,  any  sincere  self- 
expression,"  said  Alison,  "  whether  it  should  hap- 
pen to  be  oratorio  or  light  opera." 

But  this  was  not  Enoch's  meaning,  as  he  proceeded 
to  make  clear,  expressing  an  emphatic  disapproval 
of  all  forms  of  dramatic  art. 

"  Aside  from  moral  grounds,  it  seems  to  me  a 
childish,  even  primitive,  expression.  Although,  Miss 
MacDonald,  I  will  freely  confess  I  have  never  been 
to  a  play  or  an  opera." 

"  Why   is   it   immoral  ?"    asked   Alison,   wonder- 


"  I  can  only  judge  from  what  I  know  of  the  aver- 
age actor's  life,  of  the  standard  of  morality  exhibit- 
ed by  the  average  play." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  the  dramatic  instinct, 
Mr.  Holme?" 

"  Vanity,  the  craving  for  notoriety,  the  desire  for 
morbid  excitement  —  " 

"  You  think  it  possible  that  so  many  people  are 
so  deeply  moved  to  devote  their  whole  lifetime  to  an 
absorbing  occupation  —  for  such  unworthy  motives?" 

Enoch  was  astonished  at  her  earnestness. 

"  How  do  you  account  for  it,  Miss  MacDonald  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me,  like  everything  else,  a  method  of 
self-expression.  Our  lives  are  ordinarily  so  cramped, 

126 


In    the   Studio 

so  conventional,  that  we  miss  the  fullest  opportunity 
to  live  out  our  capacities  of  emotion  and  sensibility. 
An  actor,  in  his  range  of  parts,  may  express  himself 
frankly,  fervently,  freely,  as  he  never  can  in  life. 
In  so  far  as  his  acting  is  an  expression  of  himself,  it 
is  successful.  That  is  why,  I  believe,  so  many  peo- 
ple who  have  no  dramatic  talent  long  for  the  stage. 
They  are  in  a  cage  and,  like  the  starling,  they  cry 
to  get  out." 

"  Are  you  one  of  these  ?"  asked  Enoch. 

"  Do  you  think  that's  fair  ?"  Alison  retorted,  smil- 
ingly. "  Well,  I  will  confess.  I  have  had  secret 
longings  to  be  another  Duse." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Soulful  mouth  and  the  tragedy  of  the  centuries 
in  your  eyes !  But  I've  suffered  disillusion.  Dick 
tells  me  that  in  form  and  feature  I'm  a  born  sou- 
brette." 

"  Explain,  please."  Enoch  was  amused,  despite 
himself,  at  his  own  ignorance  and  Alison's  rollick- 
ing definitions. 

"  A  pretty  ankle,  china-blue  eyes,  and  tantalizing 
lips,"  said  Alison,  provokingly. 

Enoch  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  approved 
such  explicitness. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  emboldened  by  the 
spirit  of  the  hour,  "  here  is  something  I  want  trans- 
lated." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket-book  the  treasured  memo- 
randum and  submitted  it  to  the  girl  beside  him.  It 
was  delightful  to  hear  her  laughter. 

"  You  don't  think  it  impertinence  ?" 

"  Ear  from  it — a  piece  of  delicate  flattery.  There's 
an  egoistic  importance  to  everything  that  relates  to 

127 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

one's  self.    I  was  awfully  rushed  that  day ;  I  remem- 
ber it  well." 

She  filliped  the  scrap  of  paper  with  a  smile. 

"  It's  like  a  piece  out  of  a  diary,  isn't  it  ?  How 
did  you  ever  happen  to  keep  it  ?" 

"  I  didn't  happen  to,"  Enoch  replied,  tersely.  Ali- 
son hastened  to  speak. 

"  Mend  Mary's  doll.  Mary  is  my  sister,  as  you 
probably  know.  The  little  girl  with  the  pink  bows 
out  there  by  the  hammock.  Isn't  she  a  darling? 
Swami  ?  That  is  the  blond  lady's  Hindoo  teacher. 
I  went  to  some  lectures  with  her  last  winter.  Hat 
for  Lohengrin.  Lohengrin?  The  opera  with  the 
swans  in  it.  It  was  a  first-night,  too ;  Dick  took  me." 

"  Dick  again,"  thought  Enoch.  He  resented  Dick's 
laughing  eyes  and  shapely  chin. 

"  Was  the  hat  very  beautiful  ?"  he  asked  aloud,  be- 
cause he  liked  to  hear  Alison  talk  about  herself  and 
about  things  feminine.  It  was  odd  he  had  not  found 
such  subjects  attractive  before.  He  could  not  re- 
member a  single  hat  that  Sararose  had  ever  worn. 

"  Let  me  see.  It  was  crushed  and  scallopy-looking, 
drooping  on  one  side.  Dahlia-colored  and  a  very  be- 
witching jewelled  buckle  under  the  brim." 

Enoch  had  a  clear  mental  conception  of  this  re- 
markable head-dress. 

"  On  the  audacious  side,"  added  Alison,  in  an  ef- 
fort for  accuracy. 

"  If  it  was  half  as  becoming  as  that  coif,"  began 
Enoch,  gallantly — for  in  truth  the  white-lappeted  cap 
did  set  off  to  perfection  the  felicitous  coils  of  Alison's 
ripply  black  hair. 

Alison  let  the  memorandum  slip  from  her  fingers 
to  the  log-floor. 

128 


In   the    Studio 

"  Oh  no,"  cried  Enoch,  "  it  is  my  property  still," 
and  he  replaced  it  in  his  pocket-book  with  immense 
care. 

From  this  the  conversation  somehow  became  seri- 
ous again.  Alison  revealed  to  Enoch  her  hetero- 
doxy. Her  sincerity  compelled  his  respect,  but  her 
"  unbelief  "  saddened  him. 

"  Self-expression  the  end  of  living !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Why  should  we  live  to  glorify  God  ?"  she  asked. 
"  According  to  your  creed,  he  is  already  glorious 
enough.  According  to  mine,  we  ourselves  are  heaven 
and  hell — are  God." 

Enoch  wondered  if  he  were  dull  of  comprehension. 

"  But,  after  all  and  beyond  all,  what  is  the  prize, 
the  reward  ?" 

"  I  see,"  she  murmured.  "  You  are  right — there 
is  a  reward.  It  is  love." 

Her  far,  indefinite  gaze  included  him.  The  man's 
head  swam  with  the  sweetness  of  the  look. 

"  Divine  love,"  he  made  himself  say. 

In  the  confusion  of  his  senses  he  hardly  distin- 
guished her  answer,  but  it  came  to  him  afterwards. 

"  Yes,  for  all  love  is  divine." 
i 


CHAPTER  XI 
The  Raspberry  Gatherers 

TYKE  LOISEAU  came  down  the  road  beside  his 
oxen.  He  was  bringing  back  a  load  of  hay  from 
Saranac.  There  was  little  enough  fodder  grown  at 
Elk  Mountain.  He  whistled  outside  the  white-paint- 
ed gate  over  which  nasturtiums  were  blazing. 

"  Gee-haw.    Whoa  there !" 

He  leaned  over  the  gate  and  whistled  again.  It 
was  high  noon,  and  this  was  a  good  stopping-place. 
Sararose  appeared  on  the  piazza  with  some  sewing  in 
her  hands. 

"  Good-morning,  Tyke.     Stop  in  a  while  ?" 

"  Don't  mind  if  I  do,"  he  answered,  with  shame- 
faced willingness.  "  Enoch  in  ?" 

"  No,  only  Daddy." 

Tyke  unhitched  his  oxen  and  let  them  graze  in  dual 
amity  by  the  road-side.  Sararose  led  him  into  the 
dark  parlor,  where  cretonne  -  covered  chairs  were 
ranged  stiffly  around  the  room.  Enlarged  crayon 
portraits,  with  all  the  bland  and  unlined  vacuous- 
ness  of  country  idealism,  hung  against  the  striped 
wall-paper.  Under  a  glass  globe  in  a  corner  were 
some  wax  flowers.  In  the  sitting-room  beyond,  Tyke 
saw  the  sunlight  filtered  through  green  blinds  and 
Daddy  sitting  on  the  rag  carpet,  taking  out  bast- 

130 


The    Raspberry   Gatherers 

ings   from   some  feminine   garment   in   process  of 
making. 

"  Hey,  pippy,  pippy>"  chirruped  Daddy  to  his 
green  canary  that  sang  in  a  cage  by  the  window.  The 
bird  responded,  and  the  two  voices  mingled  cheerily 
with  the  snipping  of  Daddy's  scissors. 

"  He's  helping  me  this  morning,"  said  Sararose, 
in  answer  to  Tyke's  look,  but  she  did  not  ask  him 
within,  so  he  sat  down  rather  awkwardly.  The  par- 
lor oppressed  him.  She  stood  still  absent-mindedly, 
with  her  threaded  needle  and  bunch  of  sewing  in 
her  hands. 

"  Sit  down  and  make  yourself  miserable,"  Loiseau 
said,  with  uneasy  jocularity. 

Sararose  was  unhappy  that  morning  and  had  been 
crying.  The  reaction  after  the  dance  had  set  in.  Her 
life  seemed  unsatisfactory.  Everything  was  dull  and 
monotonous.  She  felt  there  were  such  possibilities 
of  happiness,  but  forbidden  to  her.  Young  men  with 
patent  -  leather  shoes  and  pink  finger  -  nails,  smiles, 
compliments,  laughing  eyes,  music,  society,  every- 
thing that  Elk  Mountain  was  not,  were  spread  before 
her  in  hopeless  panorama.  Just  before  Loiseau  came 
she  had  driven  her  needle  under  her  thumb-nail  and 
had  burst  into  petulant  tears. 

"  I  saw  Mame  Kitripp  at  Saranac,  and  she  sent 
her  love  to  you,"  said  Loiseau. 

"  Thank  you,"  Sararose  listlessly  replied.  What 
did  she  care  about  tall,  high-cheeked  Mame  Kitripp, 
with  her  new  ochre-yellow  house  and  the  fat,  bald 
baby? 

She  sat  down  by  the  window,  raising  the  shade 
part  way,  but  with  her  shoulder  to  the  light,  and  be- 
gan to  cross-stitch  whalebones  into  the  seams. 

131 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  Hain't  ye  got  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?"  Loiseau 
hitched  forward  in  his  chair  and  looked  earnestly  at 
Sararose.  "  Ye  ain't  mad  ?" 

"  Dearie,"  piped  Daddy  from  the  other  room,  "  I 
want  ye  to  see  the  pattern  I'm  cuttin'  ye." 

He  brought  into  the  parlor  a  colored  fashion  plate, 
a  lithographic  lady,  insect-waisted  and  smiling,  hold- 
ing a  diminutive  parasol  in  one  unanatomical  hand 
and  leading  an  impossible  child  by  the  other. 

"  Going-away  gown,"  he  cackled,  raising  the  shade 
by  the  cord  pulleys  and  turning  his  pink,  wrinkled 
face  towards  Loiseau  and  Sararose. 

"  When  you  go  away  on  your  wedding  tour  with 
Tyke,  you  can  wear  it :  '  pastel  blue  with  bell-skirt 
and  train.'  I  know  young  people's  ways.  I  heerd 
ye  whisper  in'  abaout  it." 

"  Yes,  Daddy,  it'll  be  a  pretty  going-away  gown," 
answered  Sararose,  gravely. 

Loiseau  realized  that  this  was  a  providential  op- 
portunity, and  his  hands  grew  clammy  at  the  thought. 
Daddy  toddled  back  to  his  shears  and  rag  carpet. 

Sararose  moved  to  the  further  end  of  the  sofa, 
away  from  the  intensity  of  the  black  eyes  and  wait- 
ing lips.  What  thin,  leathery  cheeks  he  had ! 

"  Don't  ye  want  to  live  in  Saranac,  Sararose,  an' 
go  to  the  opery  show  when  it  comes,  an'  take  pianner 
lessons  ?  An',  Sararose,  I  do  love  ye  so.  I  do  love 

ye." 

She  was  sure  he  would  kiss  her,  and  she  shuddered 
involuntarily  at  the  thought  of  his  mustache  and 
rough  chin.  So  she  rose  repellently,  saying :  "  Oh, 
Tyke,  don't  talk  to  me  like  that." 

Then  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  was  heard  out- 
side. Richard  Hollister,  leaning  over  the  sweet-pea 

132 


vines,  tapped  with  his  riding-stick  on  the  little  win- 
dow. 

"  And  is  the  mountain-rose  blooming  this  morn- 
ing?" he  called  out,  gayly.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
within  of  a  light  dress  and  a  gleaming  head. 

"  By  all  that's  holy,"  scowled  Loiseau.  "  What  on 
airth  are  ye  doin'  with  thet  camp-dandy  Hollister?" 

Sararose  untied  hey  blue  and  white  gingham  apron, 
displaying  a  white  muslin  one  underneath. 

"  Let  me  go,  Tyke.  It's  some  message  for  John 
probably." 

"  The  devil  it  is,"  Loiseau  muttered,  releasing  his 
hold  on  her  wrist. 

He  pushed  past  her  out  of  the  door  and  strode  down 
the  little  geranium-bordered  path  to  the  gate.  He 
did  not  recognize  a  jovial  salute  from  the  horse- 
back figure. 

"  Smiling  fool,"  he  thought,  as  he  gee-hawed  his 
oxen  to  their  task  again. 

"  Splendid  types,  these  mountaineers,"  was  Rich- 
ard's genial  comment,  as  he  tied  his  horse  and  mount- 
ed the  piazza  steps.  Sararose  stood  at  the  top,  her 
blue-green  eyes  alight,  and  her  recent  tears  leaving 
only  a  shade  of  wistfulness  on  her  spirituelle  face. 
The  faded  pink  of  her  newly  ironed  calico  blended 
with  the  tones  of  her  hair.  Richard  sank  into  the 
creaky  rocker  and  took  off  his  hat.  His  damp  hair 
clung  becomingly  to  his  forehead. 

"  I'm  errand  boy  for  the  camp  this  morning,"  he 
explained,  laughingly.  "  Fifty  two-cent  stamps  from 
Eddie's ;  I  nearly  knocked  him  over  with  the  magni- 
tude of  the  purchase;  shade  hat  for  Mrs.  Ruddle 
(mustn't  go  over  a  quarter)  ;  stick  of  striped  candy 
for  Mary;  block  of  writing-paper  for  Rathbun." 

133 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

Hollister  numbered  off  on  his  fingers  as  he  spoke. 
"  And  five  quarts  of  raspberries  from  anywhere. 
Couldn't  get  them  at  Eddie's,  so  came  here.  Do  you 
accept  my  apologies,  Miss — I  mean  Sararose  ?" 

He  laughed  and  she  laughed,  and  the  morning  was 
bright. 

"  Your  black-browed  swain  is  looking  back  at  you, 
there  by  the  bend  of  the  road." 

Sararose  waved  her  hand  at  poor  Tyke.  There  was 
no  response. 

"  We  have  only  three  quarts  in  the  house.  Azzy 
and  I  picked  them  last  night,  but  there  are  plenty 
more  on  the  vines,  Mr.  Hollister." 

u  Good,  and  the  vines  are  not  far  away  ?" 

"  Just  behind  the  house." 

They  both  stood  by  the  end  railing  and  looked  out 
towards  the  garden. 

"  Behind  the  row  of  currant  bushes." 

"  I  don't  see  them." 

Richard  found  it  of  the  utmost  importance  that  he 
should  see  the  raspberry  vines.  "  There  ?"  and  he 
purposely  pointed  towards  the  strawberry  patch. 

"  Those  are  strawberry  vines,"  laughed  Sararose. 
"  Raspberries  grow  on  bushes." 

"  Excuse  me,"  Richard  replied,  with  docility. 
"  Put  your  hand  over  my  shoulder  and  direct  my 
finger.  Thank  you,  now  I  see  them." 

It  was  very  amusing  to  have  this  sweet-voiced,  lit- 
tle country  girl  leaning  over  his  shoulder.  Her  fin- 
gers were  very  slim  and  delicate  for  a  country  Phyl- 
lis. Sararose,  blushing  to  be  so  near  him,  began  to 
step  backward,  but  not  before  he  had  caught  her  hand 
in  his  and  imprinted  upon  it  a  light  kiss.  Before 
she  had  time  to  be  frightened  he  had  released  her 

134 


The   Raspberry   Gatherers 

and  was  examining  the  sweet-pea  vines  with  the  air 
of  a  connoisseur. 

"  They  are  thriving,  aren't  they  ?  I  must  bring 
my  mother  up  here,  if  I  may.  She's  a  famous 
gardener,  or  thinks  she  is ;  but  your  flowers  beat  hers, 
Sararose." 

"  Dearie,"  called  Daddy,  querulously,  "  aren't  you 
going  to  cook  dinner?  I've  set  the  table,  and  it's 
'most  one  o'clock." 

Sararose  blushed  again.  It  was  very  embarrassing 
to  be  reminded  of  prosaic  things  when  a  caller  like 
Richard  Hollister  stood  on  the  piazza.  But  he  was 
not  in  the  least  disconcerted. 

"  Dinner  ?    To  be  sure.    I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Please  don't  hurry  away.     That  is  only  Daddy." 

"May  I  stay?" 

"  I  meant,  what  about  the  raspberries,  Mr.  Hollis- 
ter?" 

"  Truly,  I  had  forgotten  them.  If  you  will  keep 
me  to  dinner,  Sararose,  we  will  gather  them  together 
—yes?" 

u  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  like  our  dinner,"  hesi- 
tated the  girl.  "  The  boys  aren't  here,  and  I  was  just 
going  to  have  fried  potatoes  and  bacon  and — rasp- 
berries and  cream." 

"  Prime.  And  may  I  help  you  ?  I'm  a  first-rate 
hand  at  Saratoga  chips." 

It  might  have  been  a  meal  on  Olympus  that  Sara- 
rose  prepared,  for  all  she  knew  of  the  preparation, 
so  light  was  her  heart  as  she  stepped  about  the  well- 
scoured  kitchen.  Daddy  felt  he  had  an  appreciator 
in  the  sleek  young  man  who  sat  opposite  him,  and 
descanted  at  large  on  experiences  of  his  youth  when 
he  had  kept  the  store  which  was  now  Eddie's,  and 

135 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

it  had  been  a  gathering  -  place  for  well  -  known  per- 
sonages. 

"  Mr.  Hollister,  your  grandfather,  used  often  to 
spend  an  evening  with  me,  and  many  the  joke  we 
would  crack  together.  It  was  feast  of  reason  and  flow 
of  soul,  sir." 

Sararose  was  surprised  that  her  father  could  talk 
so  well. 

"  He  had  bought  a  parcel  of  timber  from  me,  a 
strip  along  the  lake  where  one  of  your  houses  is 
now.  '  Don't  you  give  me  a  receipt,  Johnny  ?'  he  said. 
I  had  it  made  out  in  my  hand,  but  I  wanted  to  bluff 
him.  '  What  d'ye  want  a  receipt  for,  sir  ?'  I  said. 
Then  he  chuckled  in  a  way  he  had.  '  I  see  you  de- 
pend on  my  honesty  not  to  pay  you  twice,'  he  said 
to  me.  He  would  have  his  joke.  A  very  pleasant 
man  was  your  grandfather." 

"  Didn't  you  get  it  back  at  him  ?"  inquired  Rich- 
ard, smiling  at  Sararose. 

"  I  did,  sir.  It  was  not  long  after,  one  evening 
in  September,  a  nipping  cold  night,  too,  and  we  sat 
by  a  roaring  fire  in  the  old  store.  Mr.  Hollister  was 
very  bald,  sir ;  had  no  more  hair  on  his  head  at  fifty 
than  I  have  now.  i  What's  the  likeness  between  you 
and  your  dog,  sir?'  I  asked  him.  He  had  a  hunter 
that  was  famous  in  those  days,  not  one  of  these  mon- 
grel deer-dogs,  but  a  beagle  that  showed  his  pedigree 
in  every  point.  Your  grandfather  gave  it  up.  He 
was  always  slow  at  guessing  conundrums.  '  You  both 
make  a  little  hare  go  a  long  way,  sir,'  I  told  him,  and 
you  should  have  heard  him  laugh.  Gad !  I  thought 
he  would  die." 

The  old  man  consumed  himself  with  inward  quak- 
ing laughter.  His  two  listeners  joined  him  sympa- 

136 


The    Raspberry   Gatherers 

thetically.  When  dinner  was  over  Sararose  put  on 
her  best  sun-bonnet,  a  pink  dimity  affair  with  a  ruf- 
fle and  wide  strings,  gave  Richard  a  sunburne'd  straw 
hat  belonging  to  one  of  the  boys,  and  they  went  out 
together,  with  tin  pails  on  their  arms,  to  the  rasp- 
berry patch. 

"  You  take  that  row  and  I'll  take  this,"  directed 
Sararose,  shyly. 

Between  the  tall  bushes  he  could  just  see  the  flut- 
tering of  her  sun-bonnet  and  hear  the  soft  dropping 
of  the  berries  into  the  pail.  They  called  back  and 
forth  to  each  other  like  children. 

"  How  many  have  you  ?"  she  asked,  as  they  both 
emerged  at  the  bottom  of  a  row. 

"  Only  so  many.  I  am  very  slow,"  he  admitted, 
"  and  they  are  hard  to  find." 

"  You  must  look  under  the  leaves,"  she  instructed 
him  earnestly,  "  and  see,  down  low  near  the  ground 
are  the  very  best  ones." 

She  showed  him  the  dark  red  berries  in  their 
shady  hiding-places,  almost  falling  from  the  stem 
with  ripeness. 

"  You  see  they  come  off  at  a  touch,"  said  Sararose, 
feeling  quite  superior  with  the  amount  of  information 
she  was  able  to  impart.  "  You  must  be  careful  that 
you  don't  lose  them." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  work  together,"  said 
Richard,  trespassing  boldly  on  her  row.  "  Please 
put  your  hand  here  while  I  knock  these  fellows 
off."' 

Raspberry  picking  was  delightful  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, and  Sararose  regretted  that  her  pail  was 
so  rapidly  filling. 

"  May  I  be  your  hired  man  ?"  he  asked  her,  smil- 
137 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

ing  into  the  pink  sun-bonnet.  "  It  would  be  so  much 
nicer  than  slaving  in  an  office." 

"  What  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hollister  ?" 

"  I  sit  in  an  office,  beastly  little  hole,  ten  by  twelve, 
and  add  up  figures.  Don't  you  pity  me  ?" 

Richard's  labors  at  the  Newark  office  were  not  those 
of  a  galley-slave  at  the  oars.  His  father  had  fre- 
quently to  prod  him  into  closer  application  to  busi- 
ness. 

"  It's  very  dull  here  in  the  winter,"  Sararose  an- 
swered, wistfully.  "  The  only  strangers  are  the  lum- 
bering men  who  smoke  and  drink  by  the  hotel  bar. 
The  snow  is  so  deep  that  you  can't  walk  a  dozen  yards, 
and  it  takes  two  weeks  to  pack  the  roads  enough  for 
sleighing." 

"  Snow-shoeing  2" 

"  Yes,  but  only  the  men  go  on  snow  -  shoes,  and 
they're  off  in  the  woods  weeks  at  a  time,  cutting  and 
drawing.  Then,  when  the  thaw  comes,  there's  the 
log-driving  on  the  Saranac." 

"  And  what  do  the  women  do  ?" 

"  They  darn  socks  and  nurse  the  babies,"  Sararose 
said,  with  humorous  contempt.  "  Oh  yes,  and  make 
rag  carpets." 

"  No  parties  ?" 

"  Sometimes  we  have  rag  parties,  like  a  quilting 
bee.  We  sew  the  long  strips  together  and  wind  them 
up  in  a  huge  ball  for  the  weaver.  Then  we  pass 
round  cider  and  nuts  and  fruit-cake.  I  hate  it,"  she 
added,  vehemently.  "  You  stain  your  fingers,  and 
the  women  do  nothing  but  gossip." 

"  But  now  it's  summer  and  raspberry  time,"  said 
Richard,  gayly. 

"  And  still  I'm  staining  my  fingers,"  Sararose 
138 


The   Raspberry   Gatherers 

pouted  playfully,  holding  out  towards  him  her  little 
red-tipped  fingers. 

A  very  ready  pupil  she  was,  and  she  knew  her 
hands  were  pretty.  Tyke  had  often  told  her  so. 

"  Ah,"  Richard  was  very  sympathetic,  holding  the 
little  hand  in  his  and  rubbing  the  fingers  with  his 
large,  fine,  linen  handkerchief. 

"  Don't,  please,"  cried  she ;  "  you  will  stain  your 
good  handkerchief." 

"  All  the  better ;  then  I  shall  have  something  to  re- 
member you  by,  see  ?" 

He  held  it  triumphantly. 

"  And  I  shall  not  have  it  washed." 

Sararose's  face  instantly  grew  grave.  Yes,  the 
time  would  come  when  he  would  be  gone  and  there 
would  only  be  a  handkerchief  to  "  remember  her  by." 
It  would  be  an  incident  to  him,  and  then  he  would 
forget  it  entirely.  Her  sensitive  lips  quivered  as  she 
turned  to  the  vines  again,  seeing  them  through  a 
mist. 

"  But  what  will  you  remember  me  by  ?"  asked 
Richard,  pensively ;  "  for  I  won't  be  forgotten." 

He  put  his  pail  down,  and  standing  quite  close  to 
her  between  the  thick,  sheltering  bushes,  tipped  her 
face  up  towards  his  with  a  caressing  touch  under  the 
chin.  She  was  tempting,  with  her  childlike  eyes  and 
sweet,  pouty  lips  in  the  sun-bonnet's  glow. 

"  You  little  pink  rose,  will  this  do  ?" 

He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  lips. 

Such  a  fresh,  dewy  kiss,  he  wanted  another,  but  she 
ran  away  from  him,  willing  and  yet  unwilling.  Was 
he  making  love  to  her  ?  It  was  all  so  different.  She 
put  a  raspberry  row  between  them  and  went  on  pick- 
ing, breathless,  half  smiling,  ecstatic. 

139 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  Wow,"  cried  Richard.  "  I  have  just  eaten  a 
berry,  and  it  tasted  like  red  pepper  and  bay  rum." 

"  It  was  one  of  those  three-cornered  bugs,"  laughed 
Sararose,  parting  the  bushes  and  peeping  through  at 
him. 


CHAPTER  XII 
At     Lost     Inn 

THE  Swiss  chalet,  gabled  and  shingled  and  dove- 
gray  with  the  passage  of  many  winters,  stood  alone 
on  its  mountain-side,  locked  in  by  the  black  spruce 
forest.  Far  below  in  the  valley,  a  country  road 
wound  up  the  hill,  merging  into  a  lane,  bordered  by 
golden-rods,  which  in  turn  melted  into  a  trail  through 
the  sugar  maples,  and  then  one  lost  one's  way  through 
the  black  spruce  and  balsam,  unless  one  followed  the 
path  cut  by  Enoch  Holme.  A  little  space  of  cleared 
land  in  front  of  the  inn  still  resisted  the  encroach- 
ing undergrowth  of  striped  maple,  yellow  birch,  and 
witch-dapple,  tangling  the  bases  of  the  tall  shafts. 

Enoch  had  been  busy  for  several  days  in  cutting 
timber  about  Lost  Inn.  With  every  tree  that  fell  the 
outlook  increased  in  wonder.  He  had  asked  the  Hoi- 
listers  to  Lost  Inn,  and  they  were  coming  for  the  view. 

She  was  the  woman  he  had  been  waiting  for.  With 
every  blow  of  his  axe  he  cut  down  an  obstacle  to  their 
love.  He  had  seen  her  for  the  first  time  two  weeks 
ago.  He  had  known  her  for  a  lifetime.  Waking, 
sleeping,  her  face  was  always  with  him.  A  last  blow 
with  his  axe,  then  he  stepped  to  one  side.  The  tree 
toppled  over.  What  a  vista  transpired !  One  saw,  as 
in  a  picture-frame,  green  hills,  purple  range  beyond 

141 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

range.  The  spice-laden  wind  blew  freshly.  Although 
it  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  the  high  scudding 
clouds  were  faintly  rose-hued.  Their  fantastic  shapes 
were  endlessly  changing.  Cloud-shadows  lay  on  the 
country  below  him  and  moved  mysteriously.  To 
Enoch's  fancy  they  were  great,  slow  thoughts.  How 
she  would  enjoy  such  an  outlook.  He  could  see  her 
standing  beside  him.  Now  he  recalled  every  turn 
of  her  head,  droop  of  eyelid,  inflection  of  voice,  of 
that  memorable  afternoon.  The  beautifully  modelled 
head  with  the  ripply  masses  coiled  at  the  curve  of  the 
neck,  for  she  had  not  worn  her  coif  as  a  Bretonne 
should.  Her  eyelids  drooped  over  long  eyes,  curious- 
ly almond-shaped.  Her  skin  was  pale,  but  with  the 
velvety  bloom  of  a  butterfly's  wing.  He  had  heard 
some  people  discussing  her  after  that  first  Sunday. 
They  said  she  was  odd-looking  and  not  pretty.  Per- 
haps she  is  not  pretty,  but  she  is  his  ideal.  Would 
she  want  the  branches  of  that  birch  lopped  off  a 
little?  Yes,  now  Marcy  stands  out,  austere,  mag- 
nificent. 

Her  voice  was  more  musical  than  any  music.  He 
had  never  known  before  that  there  were  such  depths 
in  women's  voices.  No,  it  was  only  this  one  woman's 
voice  that  contained  such  harmonies.  Where  should 
she  sit  when  she  came  to  Lost  Inn  ?  She  would  sure- 
ly be  with  them.  Here,  on  this  stump,  with  the  splin- 
tered upright  for  a  back — he  could  see  her  now.  He 
spread  out  his  coat  on  the  white  wood,  as  if  indeed  she 
were  to  sit  beside  him.  It  was  wrong  of  him  to  think 
so  much  of  hair  and  lips  and  eyes.  Was  this  love? 
But  he  loved  her  soul,  too — the  radiant  soul  she 
had  shown  him  during  their  long  talk  in  the  summer 
studio.  And  those  hands — strong,  supple  hands,  not 

142 


At   Lost  Inn 

small  and  blue-veined  like  Sararose's.  He  could 
imagine  the  firm  touch  of  her  fingers. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  he  said,  aloud.  "  I  cannot 
but  think  of  your  hands  and  your  lips  and  your  eyes. 
They  are  so  alive,  and  your  soul  is  in  them." 

He  waited  as  if  expecting  an  answer. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  you,"  he  answered  the  inau- 
dible voice,  "  and  you  know  me.  Are  we  not  made  for 
each  other  ?" 


"  Surely  not.     You  could  not  disappoint  me.    You 
are  the  only  woman." 


"  Yes,  your  friends  shall  be  my  friends.     I  shall 
love  them  for  your  sake." 


"  You  will  learn  to  share  my  ideals.  They  are  not 
austere,  as  people  think  them.  They  are  your  own, 
but  clothed  in  different  language." 

All  this  time  he  spoke  aloud,  and  Alison,  unseen, 
answered  him. 

A  sudden  breeze  shook  the  fir-trees  and  sent  some 
little  cones  rattling  to  the  ground. 

"  Egotist !"  he  muttered,  "  why  should  she  argue 
her  unfitness?  She  is  far  above  you.  You  are 
unworthy  of  her — Egotist!" 

The  solitary  mountain-side  below  him  lay  bathed 
in  afternoon  light.  The  bright  green  of  birches 
mingled  with  the  purple  of  spruce  and  the  blue  of 
juniper.  Over  the  flat,  rocky  face  of  distant  Copper- 
head a  cloud  darkly  hung.  Then  the  white  rain  on 

143 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

that  far  upland  fell  like  a  sheet  let  down,  hiding  the 
mountain-top.  Along  the  neighboring  hill-sides  the 
sun  basked  on  checkered  fields  and  white  specks  of 
houses.  The  woods  were  very  silent  about  him.  A 
squirrel  scampered  across  the  unfinished  veranda  of 
Lost  Inn.  He  could  hear  the  rattle  of  its  little  feet. 
Behind  the  inn  the  spruce  forest  closed  darkly. 

"  Is  not  God's  earth  beautiful  ?"  exclaimed  he,  ris- 
ing.   "  Alison,  is  it  not  beautiful  ?" 


"  I  know  that  you  love  it  just  as  I  do." 

"  JsTo,  no,  do  not  say  that.  My  soul  is  tied  down 
by  unworthy  thoughts.  You  will  help  me  to  be 
great." 

"  I  shall  learn  so  much  from  you — sweetness,  hu- 
mility, lovingness." 

"  I  believe  what  you  say  of  me.  I  once  thought 
God  had  destined  me  to  great  things.  Your  hand 
will  lead  me  to  them." 


"  And  you  will  not  regret  that  you  give  me  your 
hand  and  your  heart  ?" 

Enoch  stretched  his  arms  out  to  empty  air. 

"  For  your  sake,  love,  I  would  sacrifice  all  the 
world — all  but  the  love  of  God." 


144 


At   Lost  Inn 

"  You  shall  not  sacrifice  earthly  desires  for  me.  I 
will  bring  them  to  your  feet,  and  together  we  shall 
lay  them  before  God's  throne." 

"  Together,  Alison  ?" 

His  arms  closed  upon  empty  air.  The  sighing  fir- 
trees  answered  him.  As  Enoch  went  on  with  his 
work,  he  pondered  the  relations  between  man's  pur- 
pose and  God's  providence,  between  God's  providence 
and  the  chances  of  life.  Is  it  indeed  God's  provi- 
dence, ordaining  the  strange  mixture  of  events,  that 
thwarts  man's  purpose?  Does  God  bring  together 
by  a  storm  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  then  separate 
them  forever  ?  Does  God  ordain  this  man  to  love 
that  woman,  cruelly,  irremediably,  and  that  woman 
never  to  know  it  ?  Does  providence  lead  the  bees  to 
their  hive  in  the  old  beech-tree  and  lead  the  hunter 
to  burn  them  out?  Does  providence  blow  the  east 
wind  to  kindle  the  hunter's  abandoned  fire  and  de- 
stroy acres  of  forest  ?  Why  should  he,  Enoch  Holme, 
stand  here  in  his  cow-hides,  felling  trees  on  Snow- 
shoe  Slide,  and  Richard  Hollister,  in  white  flannels, 
drink  punch  from  a  glass  cup  by  Lake  Miquewauga  ? 

A  pink  cloud  tore  itself  gently  asunder  and  took 
the  likeness  of  two  lions,  pursuer  and  pursued.  Enoch 
watched  them  idly,  sitting  on  the  stump,  his  axe 
against  his  knee.  The  rosy,  tumbled  mane  grew  less 
bushy,  faded  away;  the  tail  spread  out,  the  feet 
stretched  backward.  It  was  no  longer  a  lion,  but  a 
headless  horse  at  full  gallop.  It  was  gone.  The 
blue  sky  showed  bare. 

Men's  lives  are  clouds,  distorted  by  passing  winds, 
the  fantasy  of  some  wilful  artist.  What  is  provi- 
dence ?  What  is  fate  ?  What  is  God  ?  A  figment 
of  human  brain.  Man  has  made  God  in  his  like- 
K  145 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

ness.  Enoch  Holme,  up!  The  afternoon  is  waning. 
It  is  not  good  to  think  too  deeply.  Act,  act,  act. 
There  is  a  will  that  conquers  fate.  It  is  your  own. 

"  Where  now  ?"  cried  a  voice  somewhere  below 
among  the  trees. 

"  Here,  here !"  another  answered  nearer. 

"  Whoop-la !"  called  a  third  voice.  "  Look  out  for 
the  fallen  tree,  Alison!" 

Enoch  heard  the  horses'  feet  paddling  on  the  soft 
duff  of  the  underwoods.  Then  a  little  cavalcade  ap- 
peared one  by  one,  waving  their  hats  to  him  as  they 
broke  through  the  brush.  Colonel  Hollister,  in  cor- 
rect corduroy  and  top-boots,  was  followed  by  a  young- 
er man,  who  sat  his  horse  loosely  and  wore  clothes 
of  clerical  cut.  Enoch  noticed  the  long,  dun-colored 
mustache  and  the  roving  eyes.  Following  them  came 
June  and  Alison,  in  their  clinging  habits  and  pict- 
uresque sombreros.  Underneath  the  broad  white 
felt,  with  its  insolent  eagle  feathers,  Alison's  face 
showed  oddly  demure. 

"  We  have  tracked  the  lion  to  his  lair,"  said  Colonel 
Hollister,  genially.  "  Man,  man,  have  you  kept  this 
to  yourself  all  these  years  ?"  as  he  looked  about  him. 

Enoch  helped  June  from  her  horse,  but  before  he 
could  get  to  Alison  she  was  down  like  a  bird. 

"  Mr.  Holme,  Mr.  Mayhew." 

They  shook  hands,  Enoch  wondering  at  the  dull 
eyes  of  the  stranger  and  the  gaunt  cheeks.  Thomas 
Mayhew,  without  appearing  to  notice,  made  an  in- 
stantaneous mental  record  of  Enoch's  great  size,  long, 
homely  mouth,  steel-blue  eyes,  unusual  forehead,  and 
the  scarred  third  finger  of  his  right  hand. 

"  Of  Clough  House,"  added  Enoch. 

"  Colonel  Hollister  has  told  you  of  me  ?" 
146 


At   Lost  Inn 

"  ]STo  one.    I  read  the  Church  Weekly." 

"Indeed?" 

Mayhew,  who  had  heard  that  Enoch  was  a  preach- 
er as  well  as  forester,  was  surprised,  not  at  the  man's 
reading  the  Church  Weekly,  but  at  his  facility  in 
placing.  Placing  people  is  not  a  rural  characteris- 
tic. Also,  the  notices  of  Mayhew's  work  in  the 
Weekly  had  been  grudging  and  inadequate. 

"  Very  pretty,  very  pretty,"  pronounced  Colonel 
Hollister  in  a  business  -  like  way,  as  Alison,  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  was  silent  with  the  fulness  of 
beauty. 

Mayhew  and  Enoch  became  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion upon  the  life  of  the  woods.  The  occupations 
and  character  of  the  inhabitants  passed  under  re- 
view. The  difficult  farming,  the  facilities  for  hay- 
ing and  pasturage,  lumbering,  with  its  incidents  of 
winter  camp  and  perilous  log-drawing  down  the  fro- 
zen log-roads,  the  rafting  and  driving  with  the  spring 
thaws,  milling,  hunting,  fishing,  guiding,  even  the 
trivial  occupations  of  gum-picking  and  pillow-mak- 
ing, interested  Mayhew,  as  he  heard  about  them  from 
Enoch's  lips.  It  was  the  clergyman's  first  visit  to 
the  woods,  and  Enoch  delighted  in  his  keen  and  in- 
telligent questioning.  The  lack-lustre  look,  however, 
never  left  his  eyes,  and  his  big  -  boned,  emaciated 
hands  hung  from  his  arms  like  useless  appendages. 
As  they  walked  about  among  the  trees,  Enoch  point- 
ed out  to  him  the  trees  by  name — maple,  beech,  bass- 
wood,  and  the  black  spruce  with  their  tall  shafts 
crowned  by  irregular  tops. 

"  When  there  is  interlucation,"  said  Enoch,  "  the 
tree  grows  differently,  branching  out  almost  to  the 
ground  like  that  tree  below  in  the  open." 

147 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  Environment,  environment,"  said  Mayhew,  duly 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  some  spiritual  metaphor. 

"  Austere  and  narrow,  if  there  is  struggle  for  the 
light,"  added  Enoch,  feeling  Mayhew's  mind.  The 
two  men  looked  upward  along  the  tall,  spindling 
shaft. 

"  That  should  teach  tolerance  of  the  intolerant," 
pursued  Mayhew.  "  Your  creed,  Mr.  Holme  ?" 

"  I  have  none  but  God,  Christ,  and  the  Bible." 

"  Too  much.  Man  is  enough."  Mayhew  caught 
the  stern  argument  in  Enoch's  eye,  and  hastened  to 
ask  practical  questions. 

"  No,  there  is  not  much  pine  in  our  woods  now," 
said  Enoch.  "  The  spruce  is  the  principal  lumber. 
Its  uses  ?  These  shafts  as  you  see  them  are  used  in 
the  round  for  spars  and  poles.  The  timber  for  every- 
thing from  house-building,  boat-building,  to  railroad 
ties  and  sounding-boards  for  pianos."  .  He  laid  his 
hand  thoughtfully  on  a  black  tree-trunk.  "  So  we 
come  into  touch,  Mr.  Mayhew,  here  in  our  hermit 
camps  with  travellers  by  land  and  sea,  and  with 
folks  at  concerts  and  rich  men's  houses." 

Alison  was  gathering  ground-hemlock  and  wreath- 
ing her  shoulders  with  it. 

"  Come,  child,"  said  June  to  her,  "  Mr.  Holme  is 
dripping  streams  of  knowledge.  Let's  gather  at  the 
fount." 

Lifting  their  heavy  skirts  in  their  dainty  hands, 
they  stepped  over  the  fallen  and  fungus-clad  timber. 

Enoch,  who  was  not  used  to  note  grace  in  human 
forms,  as  he  did  in  bounding  fawns  and  startled 
hares,  noted  for  the  first  time  its  grace.  The  men 
were  discussing  the  age  of  the  forest  trees  when  the 
girls  approached  them. 

148 


At    Lost  Inn 

"  How  old  is  this  baby  ?"  asked  Alison,  pulling 
up  by  its  strong,  wiry  stem  a  little  foot  -  high  fir- 
tree. 

"  You  have  uprooted  the  growth  of  thirty  years," 
answered  Holme,  smiling  magnetically  at  Alison. 

"  The  monster  that  I  am,"  she  cried. 

"  They  grow  slowly,  dwarfed  by  the  darkness  here 
in  the  underbrush,"  said  Enoch,  touching  with  broth- 
erly sympathy  a  spruce  that  reached  to  his  shoulder. 
"  This  tree  must  have  been  born  before  the  Civil 
War.  It  is  a  survival  of  the  fittest,  Miss  MacDonald, 
with  us  of  the  forest." 

"  You  love  the  trees,"  said  Alison. 

"  They  are  my  brothers,"  he  answered.  "  When  I 
put  an  axe  to  them  they  are  only  lumber.  But  in 
felling  a  tree  I  am  careful  that  its  fall  does  not  in- 
jure a  weaker  neighbor.  It  would  pain  me  needless- 
ly to  trouble  one  of  the  least  of  these." 

"  You  are  a  sentimentalist,  Mr.  Holme,"  said  Colo- 
nel Hollister,  looking  at  him  over  his  gold-rimmed 
glasses  with  shrewd  kindliness. 

"  On  the  contrary,  quite  utilitarian.  I  am  a  for- 
ester, and  this  is  a  forester's  business." 

"  Talking  about  the  age  of  trees,"  said  Mayhew,  in 
his  heavy,  listless  voice,  "  you  astonish  me.  You 
really  astonish  me,  Mr.  Holme.  As  you  see,  I  am 
quite  ignorant  of  the  subject.  I  was  brought  up  in 
the  Black  country,  in  England,  sir;  I  worked  as  a 
miner  till  I  was  twenty-six.  Since  then  I  have  been 
in  cities.  You  can  understand  that  I  have  not  had 
much  opportunity  to  study  trees." 

Enoch's  bushy,  light-brown  brows  drew  down  over 
his  eyes  till  his  eyes  became  merely  two  blue  steel 
lines.  It  was  a  way  he  had  when  his  mind  was  in- 

149 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

tent.  He  understood  now  the  heavy  look,  the  burned  - 
out  gaze,  the  knotted  misshapenness  of  the  thin,  yel- 
low hands.  He  felt  there  was  great  strength  in  May- 
hew,  and  the  long  endurance  of  a  tired  strong  man. 

"  Tell  us  about  your  life,  Mr.  Mayhew,"  said  June, 
leaning  forward  across  a  wind-fallen  tree,  with  her 
arms  crossed  over  her  black-habited  knees.  Mayhew 
fascinated  her  with  all  the  fascination  of  the  homely 
and  unusual  to  beautiful  young  things.  He  looked  at 
her  dully,  no  smile  behind  the  tan  mustache,  exactly 
as  he  might  have  looked  at  a  dead  leaf  blown  to  the 
log  by  a  puff  of  wind. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Holme's  life  I  am  interested  in  this 
afternoon.  It  is  not  often  one  meets  a  man  who  lives 
at  the  heart  of  nature." 

Enoch,  standing  there  in  his  wrinkled,  mud-colored 
clothes  and  rusty  boots,  without  the  erectness  of  a 
military  carriage  or  the  slouch  of  a  working-man, 
seemed  in  some  way  a  part  of  the  forest.  His  close- 
cropped  beard  was  reddish  brown,  like  the  dead 
spruce  needles,  and  his  bushy  eyebrows  and  thick  hair 
made  his  head  leonine.  As  he  surveyed  the  little 
group — Colonel  Hollister,  with  the  executive  mouth 
and  mathematical  eyes;  Thomas  Mayhew,  with  the 
inherited  peasant  in  the  very  set  of  his  feet;  June 
Hollister,  with  the  immobile  beauty  of  twrenty  years, 
and  Alison,  with  the  inexplicable  something  that  drew 
one's  heart  towards  her — there  rushed  over  him  the 
divinity  of  human  type,  and  he  became  hopeful. 

"  Relatively,"  he  thought,  "  there  is  no  more  chasm 
between  us  two  than  between  her  and  her  surround- 
ings." 

The  determination  that  he  suddenly  took  drew  deep 
downward  lines  in  his  face,  but  he  roused  himself 

150 


At  Lost  Inn 

to  interest  his  visitors.  His  heart  was  occupied  else- 
where. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  some  of  my  forestry  work  ?"  he 
said,  leading  the  little  party  out  of  the  dense  wood 
into  the  open.  They  gathered  about  the  tree  he  had 
been  felling. 

"  The  autobiography  of  a  spruce.  In  the  damp, 
still  gray  of  a  June  morning  three  centuries  ago, 
I  pushed  my  downy  green  tip  through  the  dead 
leaves  and  looked  about  me.  An  old  beech-nut  I 
had  knocked  aside  was  the  only  thing  as  small  as 
I.  Black,  scaly  giants  stood  about  me.  Hundreds 
of  feet  above,  the  great  trees  spread  to  the  light.  At 
noonday  one  ray  of  sun  fell  tremblingly  on  the  glossy 
beech-nut  and  then  scampered  off  like  a  fawn.  With 
early  afternoon  all  was  twilight  and  then  night. 
The  days,  the  months,  the  years  went  by  in  darkness 
and  struggle.  I  was  not  so  big  as  the  littlest  bear 
cub  that  tumbled  out  of  its  tree  hole  near  me  to  snub 
up  the  nuts.  Yet  thirty  times  I  had  seen  at  night 
the  yellow  moon  of  harvest  look  down  on  me,  and 
thirty  times  the  beech-tree  had  dropped  its  green 
balls,  and  the  little  bear  cubs  of  my  infancy  were 
stiff  with  age.  Thirty  times  I  had  fallen  asleep  with 
the  white  blanket  on  my  plumy  branches,  and  thirty 
times  awakened  with  the  song  of  the  sap  in  my  blood 
and  the  spring  stars  glimmering  kindly.  Still  my 
silent  neighbors  towered  above  me  to  the  sky,  and  the 
tips  of  my  branches  brushed  their  shafts  far  below 
the  unheeding  heads.  Little  seedlings  had  sprung  up 
beneath  parental  trees,  and  I  had  watched  them  per- 
ish. Mother  bear  had  torn  them  up  for  breakfast. 
Fawns  had  nibbled  them  away.  The  darkness  had 
oppressed  them.  I  alone  remained,  struggling  up- 

151 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

ward  to  that  divine  blue  sky  and  the  fellowship  of 
my  kind." 

Enoch  sought  Alison's  eyes  merely  for  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  them.  "  To  be  more  precise,"  he  went 
on,  smiling,  "  I  will  take  out  my  pocket-rule  and  mag- 
nifying-glass.  Would  you  care  to  look  ?"  He  handed 
the  glass  to  Alison.  "  He  has  left  a  record  for  each 
year.  The  rings  are  hard  to  distinguish  with  the 
naked  eye." 

"  How  do  you  estimate  the  age,  Mr.  Holme  ?"  asked 
Mayhew,  as  Enoch  folded  up  his  rule. 

"  Roughly,  by  the  diameter.  We  have  made  some 
actual  counts  for  the  State,  and  find  on  an  average  a 
thirteen-inch  diameter  for  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
three  years ;  twenty  inches  for  two  hundred  years,  and 
so  on.  This  tree  might  possibly  be  two  hundred  and 
some  odd  years  of  age." 

Alison  knelt  by  the  stump,  studying  the  rings 
through  the  glass. 

"  Why  are  they  so  narrow  here,  Mr.  Holme  ?  I  am 
sure  it  means  something." 

"  That  records  an  extraordinary  succession  of  cold 
winters,  long  before  you  were  born,  Miss  MacDon- 
ald." 

He  stooped  on  one  knee  by  Alison,  glad  of  the 
moment's  fellowship.  "  And  this  scar,  it  is  the  mark 
of  an  axe ;  let  us  see — : 

They  counted  together  from  the  outside  bark,  slim, 
white  finger  and  the  great,  brown  finger  in  partner- 
ship. Enoch  fervently  wished  that  all  the  knowledge 
of  universal  history  might  be  engraved  upon  this 
friendly  stump. 

"  Twenty-eight." 

"  Yes,  twenty-eight  years  ago." 
152 


At  Lost   Inn 

"  How  fascinating !"  cried  Alison,  in  almost  child- 
like pleasure.  "  And  to  have  my  count  come  out 
right !  This  is  what  we  called  at  college  the  labora- 
tory method.  June,  will  you  look  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  June,  indifferently,  declining 
the  proffered  glass.  She  wondered,  as  she  often  did, 
how  Alison  could  interest  herself  in  such  trifles. 

"  And  now  I  have  planned  another  show  for  you," 
said  Enoch,  with  boyish  elateness,  looking  at  Alison, 
and  pointing  towards  Cape  Mountain.  "  A  way- 
faring shower." 

Over  the  blue  sides  of  Cape  Mountain,  some  fifteen 
miles  to  the  north,  a  brisk  little  shower  was  dancing. 

"  Is  that  rain  ?"  asked  June.  "  It's  more  like  a 
gray  cloud." 

"  See  it  stride !"  cried  Alison,  her  fingers  playing 
at  giant  footsteps. 

The  shower  blew  along  in  puffs  till  the  neighbor- 
ing hills  were  blotted  out,  and  Cape  Mountain  in  its 
turn  broke  into  laughter  under  its  patch  of  blue  sky. 
Then  the  shower,  still  approaching,  a  huge,  purple 
cloud,  bulged  above  Copperhead,  its  outlines  defined 
in  billowy  shadows  on  the  mountain's  wooded  sides. 
The  village  and  fields  below  Lost  Inn  slept  in  golden 
light.  The  group  by  Lost  Inn  stood  in  pleased  si- 
lence, watching  the  little  drama. 

"  It's  like  a  Princess  Superba  play,"  said  June, 
"  and  we're  waiting  for  the  metamorphosis." 

Enoch  could  hear  Alison's  quick  breathing  by  his 
side.  If  only  the  rest  of  them  were  —  no  matter 
where — leaving  him  and  her  alone  on  the  mountain. 
Before  they  knew  it,  a  gray  sheet  flung  itself  into 
their  eyes.  A  frolic  of  raindrops  capered  about  them. 
Laughing  and  dripping,  the  party  ran  up  the  steps 

153 


The   Strength  of  the   Hills 

of  Lost  Inn.    The  wayfaring  shower  slammed  noisily 
at  the  windows  and  pounded  on  the  steps. 

"  How  delightfully  humorous !"  cried  Alison. 

With  a  triple  pantomime  of  her  hand,  she  sketched 
the  afternoon's  episode.  Circular  thumb  and  first 
finger  and  the  little  finger's  fastidious  outward  curl — 
the  aesthetic  flaneurs,  monocle  at  the  eye.  A  flap  of 
the  left  hand,  fingers  loosely  slanted  —  the  brusque 
abandon  of  the  elements.  A  few  quick  confused  flut- 
terings  —  the  entirely  human  scramble  for  shelter. 
There  was  a  laugh,  and  "  You're  a  genius,  Ally," 
said  Colonel  Hollister. 

Alison  folded  her  hands  into  repentant  stupidity. 

"  Never  again,"  she  admitted.  "  I  don't  mean  to, 
anyway." 

This  trick  of  the  hands  she  had  kept  from  her  baby- 
hood, naively  unconscious  of  it  most  of  the  time. 

Enoch  piled  up  the  logs  in  the  fireplace,  warning 
them  meanwhile  that  the  chimney  smoked.  It  was 
dismal  enough  in  the  great  unfinished  hall,  with  the 
rain  stamping  out  the  landscape.  Thomas  Mayhew 
entertained  them  with  the  long-promised  story  of 
his  life,  from  his  Black  country  mining  days  to  the 
almost  incredible  stroke  of  good  fortune  that  made 
him  a  rich  man.  Then  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  ex- 
perience till  these  more  recent  years  of  work  among 
the  Russian  Jews  in  !N"ew  York.  The  setting  sun 
poured  in  on  them  after  the  shower,  inviting  them  to 
the  porch  to  witness  a  world  new  as  at  dawning.  It 
glittered  like  a  wave,  and  a  peabody  bird,  gone  mad 
in  a  little  juniper  -  tree,  carolled  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

"  The  rainbow,"  said  Enoch,  solemnly,  following 
Alison  around  a  curve  of  the  porch. 

154 


At  Lost  Inn 

It  lay  below  them  and  above  them,  almost  a  per- 
fect circle,  barred  with  amazing  clearness  in  the  sky 
and  sheeny  against  the  earth.  The  bases  disappeared 
among  the  evergreen  trees  just  below  them. 

"  We  must  call  the  others,"  said  Alison,  in  hushed 
ecstasy. 

"  No,"  Enoch  spoke,  in  a  strange  voice,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  We  must  have  this  minute 
to  ourselves." 

She  felt  the  presence  of  a  great  suppressed  emo- 
tion and  was  silent.  Enoch  kept  his  hand  on  Ali- 
son's arm  and  drew  a  sharp  sigh.  God's  miracle  of 
the  rainbow  and  God's  miracle  of  love.  Should  he 
speak?  In  a  moment  they  would  be  interrupted. 
Should  he  speak  ?  This  dear,  silent  woman  he  could 
crush  in  his  embrace!  That  dark  eyelash  and  the 
creamy  cheek ! 

"  Alison,"  he  began. 

"  Villany,"  cried  June,  coming  around  the  curve 
of  the  porch,  "  there  you  stand  drinking  in  the  rain- 
bow and  not  whispering  a  word  of  it.  Double-dyed 
villany." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Up-Stream 

IT  was  a  still  morning  in  September,  the  water  of 
Lake  Miquewauga  like  gray  silk,  and  a  thin  purple 
haze  over  the  farther  shore  where  fallow  fires  had 
been  burning.  The  wooded  slopes  were  braided  with 
scarlet  or  bronze  where  the  hardwoods  interlaced 
with  the  evergreens  of  coiffers.  There  were  skiffs 
and  paddles  and  oars  and  punting-poles  and  guns 
and  hampers  and  pouches  and  lanterns  piled  up  by 
the  camp  pier,  and,  except  unanimity  of  desire,  every 
prospect  of  a  hunting-party  on  the  eve  of  departure. 
The  excursionists,  in  the  rough  duns  and  tans  of 
appropriate  tweed  and  leather,  stood  bunched  to- 
gether, each  animated  with  the  desire  of  making 
his  policy  dominant.  Crooked  Lake,  Elder  River, 
and  Blue  Pond  as  desirable  destinations  had  all  in 
turn  had  their  champions,  only  to  be  rejected  on 
the  plea  of  some  one  else's  bad  luck  on  previous  ex- 
peditions. 

"  Crooked  Lake,"  said  June,  "  is  a  nightmare. 
Black  flies  so  thick  you  can't  see,  and  brambles  to 
tear  the  eyes  out  of  your  head." 

"Well,  why  not  Blue  Pond?"  asked  Edward, 
Junior,  returning  to  the  attack  as  blithe  as  ever.  "  I 
killed  a  ten-tined  buck — ' 

156 


Up-Stream 


His  wife  laid  her  finger  upon  his  lips. 

"  Don't  begin  on  the  ten-tined  tune,  dear.  Besides, 
if  you  killed  him,  we  should  never  find  such  an- 
other." 

"  And  it  takes  all  day  to  get  there,"  added  June, 
contumaciously. 

The  guides,  stolidly  contemplative,  waited  at  one 
side  while  the  camp  folks  began  afresh.  Enoch 
Holme,  taking  John's  place  as  guide,  was  one 
of  the  number,  and  Sararose,  invited  by  Alison, 
stood  shyly  by  her,  a  big  black  hat  on  her  copper 
braids. 

"  Have  we  discussed  the  manner  of  game  ?"  asked 
Alison,  with  roguish  eyes,  throwing  a  new  apple  of 
discord  into  the  group. 

"  Whv  did  you  do  it  ?"  asked  Kichard,  reproach- 
fully. 

"  On  homoaopathetic  principles.  I'm  sorry,"  said 
Alison,  penitent. 

"  Strike  me  dead,"  said  Mrs.  Ruddle.  "  I'm  talk- 
ed blind,  deaf,  and  dumb.  I  recant.  I'll  go  any- 
where and  kill  anything." 

She  sat  down,  on  an  upturned  boat,  crossing  her  lit- 
tle ankles,  and  displaying  the  decided  curves  of  her 
shapely  leather-clad  legs. 

"  Off  we  go,  then." 

The  guides  pushed  the  boats  alongside  and  com- 
menced the  loading. 

"  Where  is  Nixie  ?"  some  one  asked,  as  the  people 
embarked.  There  was  a  general  laugh. 

"  Hamlet  with  Hamlet  left  out,"  said  Alison. 
"  There  he  comes." 

"  I  like  this,"  drawled  the  painter,  slouching  tow- 
ards them  through  the  trees.  "  No,  don't  wait  for 

157 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

me.  It's  all  in  my  honor,  but  never  mind  that. 
Make  tracks  while  I'm  out  of  sight." 

" '  Came  whiffling  through  the  tulgy  wood, 
And  bubbled  as  he  came,' " 

jeered  Ysobel. 

"'You   are  wrong,   Father  William,  to  stand   on  your 
head,' " 

retorted  Nixie,  irrelevantly,  as  he  gave  Ysobel  his 
hand  to  help  her  rise. 

"  Why  kill  at  all  ?"  exclaimed  Alison,  a  sudden 
idea  taking  possession  of  her,  as  the  guides  put  the 
rifles  down  in  the  bottom.  "  Let's  hunt  with  the 
camera." 

The  idea  pleased,  Nixie  especially  declaring  his 
disapproval  of  death-dealing  devices. 

June  averred  from  positive  knowledge  that  Nixie's 
gun  was  as  harmless  as  his  camera,  but  the  mat- 
ter was  finally  settled  by  private  arbitrament  between 
them.  The  guns  were  removed,  and  after  some  de- 
lay tbe  cameras  put  in  their  places.  Supernumerary 
guides  were  then  dismissed,  and  the  skiffs  thus  light- 
ened prepared  to  push  off. 

"  How  comes  it  we're  not  wrangling  over  boats  ?" 
asked  Alison.  "  I  don't  understand  it." 

Enoch,  Sararose,  and  she  occupied  the  Out  All 
Night.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  and  June  shared  the 
Happy  Home,  and  Ysobel,  Richard,  and  Nixie  placed 
themselves  with  great  satisfaction  in  the  Tippy 
Canoe. 

There  was  a  judicious  distribution  of  cameras  and 
158 


Up-Stream 


commissariat,  and,  at  Alison's  suggestion,  lanterns 
were  added  for  flashlight  pictures  on  the  way  home. 

"  Wait,  wait,"  called  a  childish  voice  from  the 
house,  as  the  last  boat  made  out.  Mary  MacDonald, 
in  her  scarlet  coat  and  white  sunbonnet,  came  flying 
down  to  the  pier  as  fast  as  her  little  feet  would  carry 
her. 

"  Land  of  Goshen,"  said  Richard,  despairingly. 
"  If  the  nursery  begins  to  arrive." 

There  were  traces  of  recent  tears  on  Mary's  little 
red  cheeks.  Her  blue  eyes  were  round  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  When  I  woken  up,  you  were  all  gone,"  she  said, 
reaching  out  her  arms  to  Alison.  "  I  ated  my  blekfus 
so  quick.  Aunty  said  plaps  you  would  take  me. 
Plea-seese." 

The  five-year-old  baby's  "  please  "  was  irresistible. 
She  stood  on  the  pier,  with  her  little,  dimpled  hands 
outstretched  to  Alison,  while  Enoch  poled  doubtfully 
back  towards  shore. 

"  You  will  get  so  tired,  darling,"  said  Alison. 

"  No,  no,  no,  no,  Alison,  I  promise.  I  will  be  so 
velly  good  and  not  kly  one  bit." 

"  Not  if  the  black  flies  bite  you  ?"  said  Alison,  re- 
lentingly. 

"  Can't  little  gell  kly  when  black  flies  bite  like 
zis  ?"  She  screwed  her  little  face  up  to  indicate  in- 
tensity of  suffering,  and  every  one  laughed. 

"  Let  her  come  on  the  strength  of  that,"  pleaded 
Mrs.  Ned,  "  especially  as  this  is  close  season  for  the 
insects.  We  will  take  her  with  us,  Alison." 

Enoch  lifted  the  child  into  the  Happy  Home,  and 
a  new  boat  was  added  to  the  canoe  fleet.  It  was 
agreed  that  Enoch  should  be  guide  and  stroke  canoe 

159 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

and  take  them  where  he  would.  The  Happy  Home 
went  last,  with  Baby  MacDonald  delightfully  en- 
sconced between  the  two  Hollisters,  and,  as  Edward 
expressed  it,  fairly  reeking  with  goodness. 

Along  the  upper  part  of  the  lake  the  shores  were 
dreary  with  blackened  stumps  and  a  young,  ineffect- 
ual sprinkling  of  second-growth  trees.  Coarse  rushes 
grew  in  shallow  water  and  moose-plants  spread  their 
islets  of  leathery  green.  The  source  of  the  lake  was 
a  creek,  wide  and  placid  at  the  mouth,  with  the 
gnawed-out  forests  on  either  side — farther  up  stream, 
crooked  as  a  succession  of  S's.  There  were  occasional 
miniature  rapids,  but  the  creek  was  navigable  for 
light  skiffs,  if  well  managed,  some  ten  miles  up  the 
mountain-side. 

They  passed  the  blueberry  swamps  and  saw  the 
light  smoke  curling  upward  from  the  shanties  of 
woodsmen  on  the  hill-side.  Enoch  kept  well  ahead  of 
the  others,  within  shouting  distance,  but  out  of  sight 
around  the  sharp  loops  of  the  creek.  There  were  so 
many  inlets  and  backwaters  that  the  inexperienced 
would  have  found  difficulty  in  keeping  to  the  main 
creek,  had  it  not  been  for  Enoch's  guiding  voice.  Ali- 
son faced  him  on  her  seat  of  hemlock  boughs. 

"  Is  it  instinct  that  teaches  you  the  way  of  the  wa- 
ter?" 

u  I  have  travelled  this  stream  too  often  to  rely  on 
instinct  merely.  In  my  boyhood  days,  there  was 
lumbering  done  in  this  region,  and  before  there  were 
main  travelled  roads  we  took  the  creek  up  the  moun- 
tain in  the  early  fall,  cutting  the  logging  roads  to  use 
in  the  winter.  In  the  spring  I  have  gone  down  with 
many  a  raft  when  the  waters  were  swollen  by  spring 
thaws." 

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Enoch  selected  for  lunching-place  and  point  of 
departure  for  the  camera-hunters  a  hard-wood  ridge, 
one  of  those  curious  table-lands,  seemingly  built  for 
human  purposes  of  fortification,  that  are  thrown  up 
here  and  there  on  the  mountain  slopes.  A  few  beech- 
es and  maples  were  golden  and  scarlet  on  its  top,  and 
below  them  was  the  cedar-clad  descent,  up  which 
they  had  toiled  from  the  creek.  The  ground  was 
crunchy  with  thick  white  moss,  embroidered  with  the 
crimson  of  trailing  partridge  vines,  and  picked  out 
with  red-globuled  bunch-berries,  primly  centred  in 
their  trifoliate  leaves. 

Enoch  gave  Sararose  his  hand  up  the  steep  hill. 

"  You  sighed,  Sararose  ?    You  are  not  tired  ?" 

"  Tired  at  ten  in  the  morning !" 

"  But  you  sighed,  dear.     Something  troubles  you." 

Witness  now  the  action  of  mind  on  mind,  that  won- 
derful chemistry  of  combination,  transmitting  liquids 
to  solids,  dissolving,  crystallizing,  obliterating,  bring- 
ing out,  all  at  the  touch  of  a  noiseless  drop.  So  will 
two  minds  act  on  each  other.  Enoch  knew  that  Sara- 
rose  was  troubled.  Sararose  was  resolved  that  Enoch 
should  not  know  the  wherefore.  Enoch  was  equally 
resolved  that  he  should.  The  master-chemist  manip- 
ulates his  crucibles.  Between  this  brother  and  sister 
the  process  was  sometimes  a  quiet  one,  sometimes  ac- 
companied with  gentle  perturbation,  often  concluded 
by  a  crash  like  the  combination  of  certain  chemicals. 

Enoch's  will  poured  itself  steadily  upon  Sararose. 
He  held  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  will  feel  better  to  have  told  me.  Perhaps 
I  can  help  you  with  it." 

L  161 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

"With  what?" 

"  Sararose,  don't  you  know  that  I  love  you  ?  Why 
will  you  tease  me  ?" 

She  would  not  be  happy  until  she  had  told  him. 
This  tiresome  love  of  his  for  her  was  always  putting 
her  in  the  wrong.  Why  did  he  need  to  take  her  lit- 
tle affairs  to  heart? 

"  If  it  is  something  serious — " 

"  No,  no,  nothing  serious." 

"  Then,  if  it  is  only  a  trifle,  don't  hesitate,  dear, 
to  unburden  yourself." 

Perhaps  it  would  be  a  relief  to  have  him  share  it. 
She  felt  she  had  done  a  wrong.  He  would  perhaps 
make  light  of  it,  and  then  surely  her  conscience  would 
be  clear. 

"  It  is  only  about  Tyke—" 

The  two  minds  gently  ran  together. 

"Tyke?" 

"  I  had  promised  to  go  with  him  to-day  to  the 
fair  at  Saranac!" 

"  You  had  promised  ?" 

"  He  will  be  so  angry  when  he  finds  me  gone. 
You  are  not  angry,  Enoch  ?" 

"  But  you  had  promised." 

"  This  was  so  much  nicer." 

"  A  promise,  Sararose." 

"  Any  other  day  will  do  for  the  fair." 

"And  for  Tyke?" 

"Oh,  dear—' 

Enoch  bent  two  stern  eyes  upon  her. 

"  I  am  sorry.     Forgive  me,  Enoch." 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I  am  not  the  One  to 
forgive." 

A  very  great  tenderness  seized  him  for  this  little 
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sister  of  his,  so  frail  against  temptation.  A  pecca- 
dillo forecast  the  future.  He  saw  that  she  was  not 
strong  enough  to  stand  alone.  Enoch  would  have 
killed  a  man  as  easily  as  he  would  have  broken  a 
promise. 

Sararose,  leaning  on  Enoch's  arm  at  the  head 
of  the  ravine,  was  oppressed  by  his  goodness.  She 
could  never  meet  his  ideal.  Her  penitence  was 
quickly  succeeded  by  reaction  and  gayety.  It  was 
quite  true  that  Enoch  bore  the  burden  of  her  sins. 
If  he  had  not  cared  so  much,  she  might  have  cared 
a  little  more. 

Alison  took  her  for  a  little  stroll,  and  Sararose 
began  to  feel  at  ease.  These  dreaded  strangers,  after 
all,  were  of  the  same  clay  as  she.  The  luncheon  was 
spread.  She  caught  the  olives  that  Richard  threw  at 
her,  and  when  the  champagne  bottles  were  opened, 
joined  in  the  toast  all  round  with  the  merriest  of 
laughter,  and  just  a  little  tremor  at  the  heart,  for 
fear  of  what  Enoch  might  say  when  they  were  at 
home  again.  But  he,  too,  seemed  a  different  man 
from  every  day,  taking  his  turn  at  anecdote  and  rep- 
artee, and  replete  with  quaint  backwoods  humor. 

"  Isn't  she  a  perfect  Bacchante  ?"  asked  Ysobel,  ar- 
resting the  young  girl's  arm,  as  she  lifted  a  glass  to 
her  lips. 

Sararose  flushed  a  deeper  rose  when  she  felt  herself 
the  momentary  centre  of  attraction. 

"  Those  parted  lips,  and  the  line  of  the  neck  and 
chin,"  went  on  Ysobel,  like  a  connoisseur.  "  Quick, 
Richard,  out  with  your  camera." 

Mrs.  Ruddle  adjusted  Sararose's  hair-pins,  and  let 
the  loosened  hair  fall  in  fantastic  fashion  about  her 
face.  She  twined  its  copper  masses  with  partridge 

163 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

vines  and  gay  leaves  that  Richard  brought  her.  Sara- 
rose  forgot  how  strange  it  was  to  hear  herself  talked 
about,  for  the  delight  of  having  Hollister's  admiring 
gaze  upon  her,  and  the  touch  of  his  fingers  about  her 
forehead  and  chin,  as  he  posed  her  for  the  camera. 
Nixon  moved  nonchalantly  about,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  squinting  his  eyes  at  this  group  and  that 
to  get  the  composition. 

"  It  ought  to  inspire  you,  Nixie,"  said  Richard, 
focusing  his  camera,  and  Sararose  was  supremely 
happy. 

Then,  from  the  height  where  they  were,  they  dis- 
cussed the  mountain  ranges  that  encircled  them  at  a 
great  distance,  palest  purple  and  dreamiest  blue. 

The  walls  of  mountains  do  not  wall  in,  but  lead 
away,  like  heavenly  high-roads  built  upward  straight 
to  eternity.  Who  that  has  seen  the  purple  of  sunset 
bathe  and  transfigure  far  peaks  has  not  seen  also  mys- 
tic gates  opened  to  his  soul  ? 

The  tender,  terrible  thrill  of  stately  distances 
pierced  Enoch  like  a  knife.  Then  the  human  chat- 
ter began,  and  all  the  peaks  must  be  named  for  the 
voluble  curiosity  of  those  who  easily  forget. 

"  There  is  Mount  Taseco,"  said  Enoch,  "  where 
Colonel  Hollister's  tracts  are,  and  the  lumber-camps 
that  your  letters  reached,  Miss  MacDonald,  last  win- 
ter. That  glister  of  white  on  the  top  ?  It  is  snow." 

So  in  turn  were  the  other  hills  and  ranges  named 
— Mount  Marcy,  Cape  Mountain,  and  even  Snow- 
shoe  Slide,  with  its  mica-glisten,  where  a  brook  ran 
over  the  naked  rock. 

"  Lost  Inn  is  there,"  Alison  pointed,  "  where  we 
rode  that  flurrying  afternoon." 

Then  it  was  between  her  and  Enoch : 
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"  Do  you  remember  ?"  and 

"  Where  the  white  shower  anointed  us — " 

"  And  the  rainbow  dried  our  feet." 

Till  some  one  broke  in  with  a  simpleton's  request 
for  the  reason  why  Cape  Mountain  was  called  "  Cape 
Mountain,"  and  "  I  always  thought  it  was  called 
Katie's  Mountain,"  from  June. 

A  sound  of  easy  laughter  from  all,  and  an  impro- 
vised legend  of  Mountain  Kate  from  Alison. 

"  No  one  lived  thereabout  for  many  years,"  said 
Enoch,  "  but  an  old  St.  Regis  Indian,  and  when  he 
offered  the  mountain  for  sale — as  the  story  goes — 
they  told  him  to  k'ape  it." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Witchhopple  Brook 

"  HAVE  you  ever  seen  Witchhopple  Brook  ?"  asked 
Enoch,  who  took  the  simple  pleasure  of  a  country- 
bred  child  in  nature's  various  forms.  A  great  pine- 
tree  on  the  hill,  a  particular  brook,  a  hidden  fence 
corner  where  a  purple  orchid  makes  a  yearly  visit, 
a  secret  marsh  that  flashes  every  midsummer  with 
the  flames  of  the  cardinal  flower,  an  elm  where  a 
pair  of  thrushes  make  a  royal  home,  a  hedge  where 
the  white  -  throated  sparrows  rehearse  their  April 
jubilee,  these  to  the  country  -  bred  child  are  part 
and  parcel  of  his  intimate  inner  life  —  "  sights  " 
to  point  out  to  the  ignorant,  goals  to  be  sought,  learn- 
ing to  be  proud  of.  So  a  New  Yorker  might  have 
asked : 

"  Have  you  seen  old  Trinity  or  the  Washington 
Arch  ?"  or  even,  "  Have  you  heard  the  latest  play 
or  opera?"  for  Witchhopple  Brook  is  something  to 
hear  as  well  as  to  see,  and  it  is  a  more  convincing 
proof  of  culture  to  know  Witchhopple  Brook  than 
a  hundred  comic  operas. 

"  No,  but  I  want  to,"  said  Alison. 

So  they  went  there  together.  Now  Witchhopple 
Brook  is  the  most  delightful  little  child  that  ever 
called  the  mountains  mother.  Elder  River,  even 

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Witchhopple    Brook 

in  its  early  youth,  has  not  the  bewitching  whimsical- 
ity of  this  fairy  runlet. 

"  Here  it  is." 

They  had  broken  through  a  thicket  of  purpling 
rock-maple,  and  now  they  stood  embowered  among 
the  trees,  Alison  caught  among  some  prickly  branch- 
es,, like  an  enchanted  princess. 

"  I  don't  see  it." 

"  Don't  you  hear  it  ?" 

The  clear,  trickling  voice  of  it  wound  into  her 
senses.  Enoch  trampled  down  the  underbrush,  and 
made  a  window  through  the  shrubbery. 

"  Look !" 

The  brook  lay  like  a  little  child  discovered  in  hid- 
ing, looking  up  at  them  with  an  innocent  air  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  How  rude  of  us  to  break  in  upon  it  without 
apology !" 

"  I  think  it  may  be  for  the  first  time  in  its  life 
that  humans  have  seen  it — just  here." 

"Keally!" 

"  It  is  a  wild  little  creature,  hedges  itself  about, 
and  evades  discovery.  Did  you  ever  notice,  Miss 
MacDonald,  how  trees  and  inanimate  wild  things 
have  personalities  like  people?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  See  the  sardonic  grin  on  that  old 
maple,  leering  at  us  sideways  from  his  twisted 
cheek." 

The  frost-fissure  on  the  sidewise-grained  shaggy 
bark  did  look  like  a  grim,  cynical  mouth. 

"  And  the  two  birches  growing  together,"  went  on 
Enoch,  fantastically ;  "  they  are  sisters,  but  how 
different !" 

"  The  slimmer  one  droops  like  a  languid  girl,"  said 
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The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

Alison,  throwing  herself  into  the  tree's  pose,  "  and 
the  stout  one  says,  { I  can't  be  graceful,  but  I  am 
sensible.'  See  how  she  spreads  out  her  hands  in  dep- 
recation." 

Alison's  dramatic  fingers  expressed  the  attitude 
so  naively  that  Enoch  laughed,  and  then  she  with 
him.  It  was  strange  how  glad  he  was  with  her, 
perilously  glad,  like  one  who  laughs  in  dreams. 
The  gladness  that  comes  from  being  with  a  beloved 
who  loves  not  us  is  the  heart-breaking  gladness  of 
one  who  snatches  respite  from  death. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Alison,  "  I  feel  it  almost 
impertinent  to  stand  in  their  stately  presence  and 
chatter  about  them.  Who  knows  but  they  listen  and 
understand  ?" 

"  Your  cynical  friend,  at  least." 

They  both  glanced  towards  the  gray  old  maple, 
who  smiled  with  shifting  irony. 

"  I  believe  that  trees  have  a  dim  sort  of  conscious- 
ness, fold  into  their  hearts  all  winter  rustling  green 
memories,  and  thrill  in  April  with  warm,  outputting 
life.  Then  they  must  grow  very  wise  when  their 
hundredth  birthday  comes.  How  big  and  pitiful  some 
pine-trees  look,  over  the  youngsters  at  their  feet." 

"  A  dim  sort  of  consciousness,"  repeated  Enoch, 
the  steel-blue  eyes  swimming  to  misty  blue.  His  for- 
est became  peopled  with  silent,  wistful  tree-souls. 

"  Now  we  strike  an  Indian  trail." 

"A  trail?" 

"  There  is  not  much  sign  of  a  road,  is  there,  but 
yet,  don't  you  see  a  vague  sort  of  tendency  in  the 
underbrush  to  grow  sparingly  and  fly  apart  ?  Don't 
you  find  an  open  space  here  and  there,  and  under 
your  feet  a  packed  feeling?" 

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Witchhopple   Brook 

"  I  do,  I  do,"  said  Alison,  delighted. 

"  It  is  marvellous  how  long  a  trail  persists.  The 
red  men  may  have  made  this  one  of  their  mysterious 
highways  for  thousands  of  years.  We  don't  know 
their  history,  do  we,  so  I  am  safe  in  saying  my 
thousands.  Then  it  is  disused,  fifty,  a  hundred 
years,  but  the  trail  is  life;  it  hides,  but  it  does  not 
die.  The  animals  choose  it,  perhaps,  for  their 
stealthy  wanderings." 

"  Why  are  animals  stealthy  ?"  asked  Alison.  "  It 
doesn't  seem  dignified." 

"  Another  of  men's  conceits,"  remarked  Enoch. 
"  We  only  see  them  when  we  intrude." 

"  And  then  they  are  naturally  a  little  self-con- 
scious," said  Alison,  in  quaint  defence.  "  But  I  like 
this  idea  of  yours  about  trails.  It  makes  them  seem 
living,  too." 

"  A  dim  sort  of  consciousness,"  repeated  Enoch. 
"  Miss  MacDonald,  there  is  magic  in  you.  You  are 
peopling  the  forest  with  souls,  and  they  will  com- 
fort me  after — 

The  almond-shaped  lids  of  Alison's  dark  eyes  re- 
vealed no  embarrassment.  He  decided  to  finish  in 
all  calmness,  according  to  his  original  thought. 

"  After  you  are  gone.  They  will  be  friends  in 
common — yours  and  mine." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alison.  "  It  is  beautiful  to 
have  the  trees  and  brooks  and  trails  for  friends  and 
reminders — ' 

"  Although  sometimes,"  Enoch  ventured,  "  I  shall 
long  for  a  more  human  reminder." 

They  stood  again  by  little  Witchhopple  Brook,  that 
widened  out  in  a  meadow-plot,  like  a  miniature  beav- 
er-meadow. The  land  sloped  to  it  graciously,  so  that 

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The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

it  seemed  to  lie  in  the  hollow  of  a  loving  hand.  Col- 
ored leaves  fluttered  downward,  downward,  down- 
ward, circling  ever  so  gently,  like  delicate  tributes 
into  a  lap.  They  lay  around  the  edges  of  the  brook- 
pool,  rimming  it  with  ruined  gold. 

"  It  seems,"  said  Alison,  "  as  if  we  had  entered 
a  charmed  land.  How  the  wind  died  down,  and  the 
sun  came  out,  just  as  we  stepped  within  this  enchant- 
ed circle." 

"  You  are  the  enchantment,"  said  Enoch,  very  soft- 
ly, and  Alison  did  not  answer. 

The  world  suddenly  vanished,  and  the  wood  turn- 
ed to  gold,  and  there  lay  the  little  lake,  with  one 
white  cloud  down  in  its  middle,  deeper  than  any 
depths  of  sea. 

"  It  is  curious  how  if  you  look  at  it  in  one  way 
you  see  beautified  golden  trees  drowning  in  clear 
glass,  and  one  white  cloud  and  blue  sky,  magically 
deep — do  you  see?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Enoch,  trembling.  "  That  is  when 
you  are  hoarding  a  dream." 

"  And  in  the  other  way,  you  see  just  about  twenty 
inches  of  water  and  a  crinkled  mud  bottom." 

"  That  is  reality,"  said  Enoch.  "  Which  do  you 
see  now  ?" 

"  I  see  the  crinkly  mud.  I  can't  see  the  sky.  If 
I  shut  my  eyes  hard,  and  then  open  them,  I  think  the 
sky  will  return  to  the  pool." 

"  Mud  bottoms  are  good  and  wholesome,"  Enoch 
replied.  "  They  do  not  lead  astray." 

"  That  one  looks  like  satin,  and  it  is  crimped." 

But  the  sky,  as  he  had  seen  it  that  flitting  mo- 
ment in  the  pool,  had  been  as  the  body  of  heaven 
for  clearness. 

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Witchhopple    Brook 

"  Let  me  take  this  leaf  from  your  hair." 

It  was  a  maple  leaf  that  had  fallen  upon  her  as 
they  stepped  into  the  enchanted  circle  that  time, 
"  when  the  wind  died  down,  and  the  sun  came  out." 
A  very  beautiful  one,  yellow  shading  to  scarlet,  per- 
fect around  all  its  three  points  and  edges,  and  glow- 
ing like  polished  wood. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alison ;  "  and  now  shall  we 
find  the  others  ?" 

Enoch,  as  he  lingered  behind  her,  folded  the  scar- 
let-shaded leaf  into  his  pocket-book.  His  mouth  re- 
lented from  its  animal  calm  to  a  quiver  of  longing. 


CHAPTER  XV 
Reading    Characters 

ALISON  and  Enoch  wandered  to  the  other  end  of 
the  upland.  A  little  wind  preceded  them,  rattling 
the  colored  leaves  along  in  a  helter  -  skelter  game. 
The  sun  glistened  warmly  in  the  golden  heart  of  the 
great  beech-tree  that  guarded  the  ridge. 

"  (  And  out  of  it,  as  wind  along  the  waste/  "  quoted 
Alison. 

They  were  nearer  now  the  gay  confusion  of  voices, 
and  stood  quietly  in  the  circular  yellow  shadow  of 
the  beach.  The  heart-breaking  gladness  had  gone, 
and  a  burden  lay  on  Enoch's  heart.  This  might  be 
their  last  day.  He  would  at  least  lose  nothing  by 
confession. 

"  Miss  MacDonald,  do  we  understand  each  other 
so  well  that — " 

He  was  not  aware  how  many  minutes  they  had 
stood  in  silence,  Alison  looking  at  the  golden  spat- 
tering of  the  beech  leaves  against  the  blue  sky. 

"  We  can  be  silent  together,"  she  finished,  feeling 
something  in  his  tone  that  required  the  initiative  of 
commonplace  on  her  part. 

"  Or  one  can  be  silent  while  the  other  speaks. 
Will  you  listen  while  I  speak  ?" 

"  Let  us  both  talk,"  said  Alison,  childishly.  "  It's 
172 


Reading    Characters 

such  a  leafy,  rustly,  blowy,  red-and-yellow  day.  I 
want  to  shuffle  the  leaves  and  shout,  '  Autumn  in  the 
mountains  is  a  revel.' ' 

Enoch  set  his  lips  sternly  while  Alison  rattled  on. 

"  I  could  be  a  Maenad  or  one  of  Vedder's  cypress- 
slender  Ministers  of  Wine  on  an  afternoon  like  this." 

She  pulled  a  low  branch  down  with  both  arms 
upraised,  till  the  russet  foliage  spread  out  around 
her  like  a  nimbus.  With  skirt  blown  back,  and  hair 
blown  out  and  tangled  with  red  and  yellow  leaves, 
she  seemed  the  spirit  of  gorgeous  autumn.  A  burst 
of  laughter  floated  to  them  across  the  upland. 

"  Ysobel  Ruddle,"  said  Alison.  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  such  a  laugh,  Mr.  Holme  ?  It's  a  peal  of  bells." 

"  She's  a  curious  creature,"  Enoch  replied.  "  But 
I  do  not  want  to  talk  of  her,  Miss  MacDonald ;  I 
would  rather  ask  you  one  question  about  yourself." 

"  Answer  me  one,"  said  Alison,  striving  hard  for 
a  diversion.  "  What  do  you  think  of  us  all  ?" 

"  One  question,  but  many  answers." 

"  Take  us  one  by  one,"  said  Alison.  "  We  love 
to  be  analyzed."  She  was  sure  this  great-browed 
young  woodsman  had  opinions  worth  the  hearing. 

"Where  do  I  begin?" 

"  Mrs.  Ruddle  ?" 

This  would  lead  very  well  to  his  heart's  desire,  so 
Enoch  began.  His  candid  thoughtfulness  was  far 
removed  from  conventional  urbanity. 

"  Shall  I  speak  truthfully?" 

"  By  all  means." 

"  She  is  too  fleshly  for  an  Undine  and  too  child- 
like for  a  worldling.  She  is  not  immoral,  but  un- 
moral." 

"  Good.     What  does  she  lack  ?" 
173 


The  Strength  of  the    Hills 

"  The  chastening  of  a  great  sorrow." 

"  Nixon." 

"  The  hatchet-faced  man  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Worn  by  satiety.  Of  course  I  have  never  seen 
his  pictures,  but  they  lack  enthusiasm.  He  cannot 
rebound  from  flattery." 

"He  needs?" 

"  Poverty." 

"  Good,"  said  Alison  again,  laying  her  cape  on 
the  slope  beneath  the  beech-tree.  They  had  climbed 
down  the  southeast  edge  of  the  upland,  and  on  the 
sunny  hill-side  were  screened  from  the  rest  of  the 
party. 

"How  about  Eichard  Hollister?"  She  gath- 
ered up  some  moss  and  crushed  it  between  her 
palms. 

"  He  is  an  epicurean.  He  would  build  an  altar 
or  wreck  a  ship  with  the  same  beautiful  smile." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Alison,  her  eyes 
downcast,  picking  the  shreds  of  moss  from  her  lap. 
"  What,  he  is  not  sincere  ?" 

"  He  is  sincere — in  the  worship  of  the  moment. 
Besides  that,  he  is  light-hearted  and  generous,  as 
beauty-lovers  are.  He  is  a  man  to  break  hearts  be- 
cause he  has  not  a  heart  of  his  own." 

"  Stop,"  cried  Alison,  springing  to  her  feet.  "  You 
have  no  right  to  say  these  things." 

"  You  asked  me  to  speak  the  truth." 

"  I  was  foolish.  I  did  not  dream  you  would — 
you  would — " 

"  Speak  the  truth  ?  I  always  speak  the  truth, 
Miss  MacDonald.  Forgive  me,  I  should  have  been 
silent.  Will  vou  forgive  me?" 

174 


Reading    Characters 

"  Yes,  it  was  nothing.  You  do  not  know  Dick 
Hollister." 

"  I  spoke  from  ignorance,"  said  Enoch,  carefully. 
"  I  described  a  type.  Will  you  not  sit  down  ?  You 
are  not  going?" 

Alison  looked  hesitatingly  towards  the  upland. 
The  picnickers  had  scattered,  and  there  was  no  sound 
of  voices.  The  reminiscent  quiet  spell  of  September 
lay  on  the  atmosphere.  The  wind  had  gone  down. 

"  There  is  one  person  more  I  would  like  to  talk 
about,"  said  Enoch,  with  azure  in  his  eyes,  "  and  I 
shall  not  speak  from  ignorance  and  I  will  not  be  un- 
kind." 

"  Listen  to  those  children,"  cried  Alison,  as  laugh- 
ter drifted  to  them  from  the  woods.  "  They  have 
found  something  amusing.  Let  us  join  them." 

"  Must  you  always  be  amused  ?"  asked  Enoch. 

He  was  stung  by  Alison's  impersonal  chatter.  In 
some  vague  way  he  knew  that  she  had  a  purpose,  and 
yet  it  impelled  him  all  the  more  to  the  confession 
that  she  warded  away.  To  some  temperaments  a 
danger  sign  is  an  irresistible  lure. 

"  Why  not  be  amused  ?"  asked  Alison.  "  Give  me 
gayety  or  give  me  death." 

"  You,  too,"  said  Enoch,  with  persistent  gravity. 
"  Are  you  like  the  others,  butterflies  drifting  down 
the  painted  ways,  while  the  great  tragic  world  suf- 
fers and  lives  and  dies  and  God's  purposes  are  work- 
ed out  to  everlasting  happiness  or  misery?  Is  there 
nothing  to  life  but  what  you  and  your  friends  make 
of  it,  a  children's  holiday?  Have  you  not  seen  in 
your  city — cannot  you  see  even  here,  in  the  moun- 
tains— men  and  women,  toiling,  struggling,  starved, 
hideous  lives,  without  the  comfort  of  hope  or  of 

175 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

memory  to  make  the  happiness  possible  that  you 
recklessly  squander?" 

In  quick  panorama  there  passed  before  Enoch 
the  exotic  luxury  of  Camp  Hollister,  with  its  ser- 
vants, iced  drinks,  awnings,  fantastic  mummeries, 
and,  in  contrast,  the  log  shanties,  the  long,  freezing 
winters  of  lumber  -  camps  on  the  mountain,  men 
standing  to  their  waists  in  ice,  knocked  to  death  by 
treacherous  booms.  At  that  moment,  Alison,  parry- 
ing his  earnestness,  seemed  to  embody  the  heartless 
indifference  of  one  half  the  world  to  the  other.  The 
blind  agony  of  one  who  is  refused  hearing  sought 
brutal  outlet.  He  was  always  most  cruel  when  he 
most  deeply  loved. 

He  knew  that  in  a  moment  he  would  be  overcome 
by  remorse  and  tenderness.  Till  then  he  spurred 
himself  on  to  pour  out  his  wounded  heart.  If  the 
girl  refused  to  listen  to  his  love,  she  should  listen 
to  his  scorn. 

"  You  know  what  I  have  to  say  and  you  will  not 
hear  me,"  he  said. 

The  paleness  of  his  face  and  the  lines  about  his 
hurt  eyes  was  painful  to  see.  Alison  had  dropped 
her  arms  to  her  side,  and  stood  watching  him  with 
surprise  and  pity. 

"  You  will  not  listen  to  me,  and  why  ?  It  pleases 
your  fancy  to  draw  out  my  wood-lore  and  learn  of 
the  logging  camps,  the  river  drives,  the  skidding,  and 
sawing.  It  is  picturesque — a  story-book.  You  turn 
the  leaves  with  a  smile.  But  once  let  me  speak  to 
you  as  human  to  human,  you  shut  the  book  in  dis- 
gust. You  draw  away  from  the  touch  of  my  earth- 
stained  fingers.  The  luxury  you  have  known  is  the 
onlv  bar  between  us,  and  you  hold  vourself  apart 

176 


Reading    Characters 

like  a  different  clay.  My  God,  we  are  different. 
What  do  we  know  of  you  or  you  of  us  ?" 

The  long  isolation  of  Enoch's  life  was  subjective 
as  well  as  objective.  It  thrust  itself  like  a  visible 
wall  between  him  and  fellow-feeling. 

"  The  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot,  and  I  have 
said  all  there  is  to  say  of  you." 

Alison's  trembling  hands  smote  him  like  a  prayer. 
He  steadied  himself  against  a  tree,  covering  his  face. 
What  had  he  said  ?  What  would  she  say  ?  Did  she 
know  he  loved  her  ?  My  God,  how  he  loved  her ! 

"  Mr.  Holme." 

He  turned  towards  her. 

"  I  will  leave  you,"  he  said.    "  I  have — " 

(No,  she  should  never  know  the  mad  thought  of 
his  heart.) 

"  — been  very  rude — " 

(Yes,  he  would  make  his  confession,  quite  hum- 
bly, with  no  thought  of  her  answer.) 

"  I  had  meant  to  say  that — 

("I  loved  you."  This  was  never  the  time.  How 
still  she  stands  there.) 

"  That  I  was — glad  to  know  you." 

("  Good  God,  that  I  had  never  seen  her.") 

"  I  am  a  plain  man,  unlearned  in  your  ways." 

die  knows  by  heart  those  hands  and  the  tendrils 
round  her  neck.) 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

("I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you.") 

" — and  forget  my  rough  words?" 

(They  are  gashed  in  his  memory  like  axe-marks.) 

"  No,  no,"  said  Alison,  filled  with  great  pity  for 
the  man's  suffering.  "  I  understand  what  you  had  in 
your  heart  to  say.  You  need  not  be  sorry  that  you 
M  177 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

have  spoken  as  you  did.  I  believe  in  you,  Mr. 
Holme,  and  want  you  to  understand  us.  Sit  down 
here  and  listen  to  me  a  little." 

She  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  beech-tree  among  the 
crumpled  leaves,  but  Enoch  remained  standing. 

"  Epicureans,  Undines,  reckless  idlers  who  have 
never  known  care — do  we  seem  so  ?  Mr.  Holme,  of 
all  whom  you  met  at  the  camp  that  afternoon  there 
is  scarcely  one  who  does  not  know  trouble,  scarcely 
one  on  whose  heart  there  is  not  a  burden.  We  dis- 
semble before  the  world,  before  each  other." 

"  If  you  have  never  known  the  hopeless  pang  of 
poverty,  what  it  is  to  be  tied  like  a  bear  to  a  trap, 
pawing  for  freedom,  but  poverty  like  a  steel  vise 
fastening  you  to  one  spot — " 

"  Poverty,"  said  Alison,  slowly.  "  I  have  been 
through  in  my  mind  all  that  poverty  means  for — 
myself  and  for  Mary.  My  father,  dying,  left  us 
unprovided  for.  When  I  became  Mr.  Hollister's 
secretary,  I  became  a  bread-winner,  Mr.  Holme." 

"  Bread-winner  ?" 

"  You  think  it  merely  a  fanciful  name  for  char- 
ity," Alison  smiled  with  insight.  "  Even  charity 
is  a  difficult  thought,  is  it  not?  But  to  leave  my- 
self out  of  the  question,  poverty  is  not  far  removed 
from  any  one.  People  are  not  ignorant  of  it  as  they 
seem.  If  one  has  never  known  what  it  is  to  question 
whence  comes  the  next  dollar,  one's  parents  can  tell 
one,  or  one's  intimate  friend.  Rub  off  the  veneer  of 
a  few  years  of  luxury,  of  idleness,  the  polish  of  a 
little  education  and  travel,  we  are  all  the  same. 
Yours  is  too  large  a  spirit  to  be  embittered  by  class." 

("  Woman,  woman,  do  you  not  know  that  it  was 
the  bitterness  of  barren  love  that  maddened  me  ?") 

178 


Reading    Characters 

Alison's  kind  voice  went  on : 

"  Mrs.  Ruddle,  for  instance,  with  her  daring 
gayety  and  reckless  speeches  —  you  would  under- 
stand her  better,  Mr.  Holme,  if  you  knew  what  her 
life  had  been.  We,  who  know  her,  forgive  a  great 
deal,  thinking  how  bravely,  after  all,  she  has  tussled 
with  bitterness  from  her  childhood  till  this  very 
day.  She  has  never  had  a  home.  Her  father  was  a 
dissolute  ne'er-do-well,  who  sent  his  wife  to  the  grave 
broken-hearted  before  Ysobel  could  read  her  primer. 
She  was  packed  off  to  school  at  Paris,  Geneva,  Brus- 
sels, here,  there,  everywhere,  to  suit  the  father's 
fancy,  to  keep  her  out  of  his  way.  When  barely  out 
of  school  she  married  the  man  who  was  her  husband. 
And  there  was  another  tragedy." 

The  pause  in  Alison's  voice  was  vibrant  with 
pathos. 

"  Poor  Ysobel !  She  thinks  she  is  armor  -  proof 
against  the  world.  She  has  known  more  evil  than 
good.  What  wonder  that  her  philosophy  of  life 
leaves  out  the  soul?  You  said  she  needed  the  chas- 
tening of  great  sorrow.  Perhaps  you  were  right, 
for  there  are  some  natures  whom  sorrow  does  not 
chasten.  A  great  happiness  might  chasten  as  well. 
And  Nixie  has  been  poor  all  his  life,  not  petted  and 
not  praised.  He  worked  his  way  through  the  art 
schools,  getting  up  at  gray  of  morning  to  put  out 
street  lamps,  and  setting  type  till  midnight.  Even 
now,  with  his  name  before  the  public,  it's  a  hand-to- 
mouth  struggle  for  daily  bread.  That  careless  in- 
difference of  his  is  the  armor  of  a  sensitive  nature 
against  misunderstanding  and  ridicule." 

Enoch  listened,  growing  sane  again.  This 
straightforward  girl,  with  the  exquisite  voice  and  the 

179 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

knowledge  of  life  in  her  eyes,  astonished  him.  She 
had  helped  him  to  master  himself.  Oh,  for  an  op- 
portunity to  serve  her  and  to  win  her. 

"  Miss  M acDonald,"  he  faltered,  "  you  have 
taught  me  a  lesson.  But  you,  you  with  everything 
to  shield  you,  every  one  to  love  you — 

He  stopped,  not  knowing  how  to  frame  the  ques- 
tion that  was  in  his  mind.  Alison  understood. 

"  Look  at  me.  Do  I  look  like  a  woman  who  has 
never  suffered  ?" 

It  was  rarely  that  Alison  alluded  to  the  grief  of 
her  own  life.  She  had  a  desire  that  Enoch  should 
understand  her.  She  clearly  felt  that  he  had  come 
to  a  crisis  in  his  life.  She  knew  he  had  done  him- 
self injustice.  She  wanted  to  bring  about  a  fellow- 
ship between  them  by  making  him  sharer  of  her 
experience.  She  trusted  him.  She  wanted  him  to 
trust  himself. 

Enoch  looked  at  her  in  a  new  way,  not  as  the 
white-clad  dreamer  of  the  moonlight  drive,  nor  the 
quaint  mummer  of  the  Breton  tea,  nor  the  demure 
horsewoman  of  Lost  Inn,  but  a  woman  to  whom  he 
had  uttered  insanity  and  who  asked  him  now  to  read 
her  life  in  her  face.  Her  superb  belief  in  him  was 
thrilling. 

He  looked  at  her  long  and  deeply.  The  angel  of 
knowledge  was  in  her  eyes.  As  he  looked  thus,  mem- 
ory swept  like  a  wave  over  Alison's  face.  The  grief 
that  for  his  sake  she  called  up  engulfed  her.  She 
wondered  how  she  could  ever  again  forget. 

"  I  am  cruel,  cruel,"  said  Enoch,  leaning  over 
her.  "  Do  not  think  of  it." 

"  I  want  you  to  know.  Think,  if  you  can,  of  a 
home  as  happy  as  love  could  make  it.  Think  of  a 

180 


Reading    Characters 

man  idolized  by  his  family,  his  friends,  my  ideal, 
Mr.  Holme,  of  husband,  father,  friend.  He  was  the 
centre  of  that  home,  the  head  of  that  household.  My 
mother  lived  for  him.  I  adored  him." 

Alison's  expressive  hands,  moving  as  she  talked, 
now,  as  she  was  silent,  seemed  by  a  little  gesture  to 
show  the  circle  about  the  fireside. 

"  Do  you  know  what  a  panic  in  Wall  Street  is  ? 
Millions  of  money  lost  and  —  gained  somewhere, 
men's  lives  wrecked,  always  human  lives  at  the  bot- 
tom, upset  like  this,  lights  out,  and  broken  chim- 
neys." 

Alison's  unconscious  fingers  showed  a  life  up- 
set like  a  lamp  from  a  table  and  a  ring  of  faces 
aghast. 

"  I  can  see  my  father  now  as  he  lay  across  the 
sofa  in  the  firelight,  the  powder  mark  on  his  temple, 
and  the  pistol  dropped  from  his  hand  to  the  floor. 
Oh,  my  father." 

Alison's  hands  opened  and  closed. 

"  When  I  shut  my  ears  to  the  sound  of  the  world 
and  my  eyes  to  familiar  faces,  I  hear  the  scream  of 
my  maddened  mother.  I  can  see  that  face  of  hers, 
darkening  to  insanity.  I  feel  sometimes  that  I  too 
must  go  mad  as  she  did.  No,  no;  let  me  tell  you. 
It  is  good  for  me  to  think  of  them  once  more.  They 
will  not  be  ironed  out  of  my  life.  My  father,  my 
mother.  He  lies  across  the  sofa  with  the  gray  mark 
on  his  temple.  She  rocks  and  rocks  and  rocks  in 
that  place — you  know — where  they  take  the  people 
whose  windows  are  darkened." 

Alison's  never  quiet  fingers  showed  the  hideous 
monotony  of  the  rocker.  "  I  have  never  been  able 
to  look  at  a  rocking-chair  since." 

181 


The  Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  God  has  helped  you  to  bear  these  things,"  said 
Enoch.  "  God  has  wrought  sorrow  into  fine  gold." 

Alison  poured  a  liquid  look  upon  him.  Her  fold- 
ed hands  expressed  peace  of  mastery. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  God.  I  have 
borne  it  because  I  am  young  and  strong,  and  because 
Mary  is  left  to  me,  and  because — green  grass  grows 
over  graves." 

"  Dear  Miss  MacDonald,  do  you  not  know  Christ  ? 
Is  He  not  a  friend  to  you?  If  you  only  let  Him 
speak  to  you — " 

"  I  have  heard  such  language,  but  I  cannot  under- 
stand it.  God  and  Christ  are  vague  terms  of  the- 
ology. Human  love  is  real.  I  have  one  thing  more 
to  tell  you.  Then  you  will  understand  better — what 
you  did  not  understand  a  while  ago." 

Enoch  was  himself  again,  his  nobler  self.  His 
blue  eyes  were  large  with  compassion  for  this  brave 
heart  who  fought  alone,  unknowing  Christ,  against 
such  odds.  His  humaner  passion,  in  its  brutal  crude- 
ness,  was  mastered  by  Alison's  rare  gift,  an  essen- 
tially womanly  quality  of  bringing  out  one's  best. 
A  diviner  passion  for  souls  took  its  place. 

"  I  am  engaged  to  Richard  Hollister.  We  are  to 
be  married  in  October." 

"  Good  God !"  cried  Enoch.  The  human  passion 
rudely  usurped  the  place  of  the  divine.  He  walked 
away  from  Alison  down  the  slope.  He  saw  nothing. 
He  thought  nothing.  He  suffered.  He  lived.  He 
returned  to  Alison  an  older  man. 

"  Our  lives  have  come  closely  together,"  cried  Ali- 
son. "  You  have  deeply  impressed  me.  I  believe 
in  you,  Mr.  Holme.  I  believe  you  will  do  great 
things." 

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Reading    Characters 

How  like  she  was  talking  to  the  woman  of  his 
fancy  and  how  unlike. 

"  Not  without  you." 

Enoch's  voice  was  controlled,  but  heavy  with 
meaning. 

"  Then  with  me,"  said  Alison,  looking  at  him 
clearly.  "  With  me,  if  you  will  have  us  friends. 
Friends,  Mr.  Holme?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  Enoch's  steel-gray 
eyes  grew  large  and  blue  with  forecast  of  the  future. 

"  Friends,"  he  replied,  gravely,  with  a  leap  at 
the  heart,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
An    Interruption 

THEBE  had  been  for  some  time  stirring  in  the 
dense  growth  of  young  cedar  below  them  on  the 
slope  such  delicate  agitations  as  one  hears  from  bird- 
haunted  hedges,  or  squirrel-habited  oaks,  or  the  dim 
under-life  of  earth  beneath  leaf  mould.  Enoch  and 
Alison  had  both  apprehended  it  by  the  dull  physical 
sense,  but  to  the  finer  hearing  it  had  not  yet  come. 
When  silence  fell  between  them,  the  cedar-trees  were 
still,  for  the  afternoon  was  windless.  But  they  both 
heard  the  stirring,  arriving  late  on  their  sense,  like 
a  rising-bell  struck  in  one's  sleep  and  heard  on  wak- 
ing. 

Then  Loiseau  flung  himself  out  of  the  shadows. 
"  Aye,  look,  look  yer  fill.  When  ye've  finished  look- 
in',  ye  philanderin'  preacher  ye,  ye  that  don't  hev 
the  spirrit  to  in  with  yer  kind  as  drinks  good-fellow- 
ship an'  talk  to  each  other  like  men,  but  walks  on 
eggs  an'  holds  your  hands  up  in  holy  horror  at  folks 
that  are  human,  what  time  ye  ben't  throwin'  stones 
into  other  people's  houses,  ye — Enoch  Holme!" 

Loiseau  spit  out  the  name  like  an  abusive  epithet. 

"  Tell  me,  ef  ye  can,  while  ye're  havin'  your  feast, 
eye-gazin*  and  hand-holdin',  whar's  that  little  sister 
of  yours,  you  that  purtends  she  be  the  apple  of  your 

184 


An   Interruption 

eye  and  then  whisks  her  off  to  be  a  toy  for  rich  men's 
sons  while  ye  puts  yer  own  oar  in  with  the  daugh- 
ters. Blind  fool  that  ye  be,  tell  me  whar  Sararose 
is  this  minute,  an'  if  you  cyant  tell  me,  I  cyan,  by 
hell." 

Loiseau  poured  this  out,  without  a  stop,  finishing 
with  an  oath.  He  was  black  with  passion.  Enoch 
turned  to  Alison. 

"  Miss  MacDonald,  I  will  take  you  to  your 
friends." 

"  Oh  no,  not  so  quick,  damn  you.  'Twas  you  that 
kep'  her  from  keepin'  her  promise  with  me,  an'  'tis 
you  that  shall  answer  for  it  now.  Parlay-vouin'  and 
chassayin'  ain't  goin'  to  cyount  between  you  and 
me.  Drop  yer  fine  airs,  Enoch  Holme,  and  step  up 
to  business." 

"  Loiseau,  you're  mad— 

"  Mad  am  I,  and  perhaps  'twould  madden  you 
if  ye  had  a  heart  in  ye  in  place  of  a  lump  of  sancti- 
fied ice,  to  see  the  little  gell  ye  loved  cyarried  off 
by  thet  silk-stockinged  dude  of  a  Hollister,  he  a 
whisperin'  an'  smilin'  and  cyarin'  no  more  fer  her 
than  fer  the  speckled  trout  he  pulls  out  o'  the  stream, 
and  I — Lord  help  me — 

There  was  murder  and  insanity  in  Loiseau's  eye, 
and  an  ugly  flash  in  the  air  as  he  sprang  at  Enoch. 

"  Save  yourself,"  cried  Enoch,  for  Alison  was  be- 
hind him.  He  caught  Loiseau's  wrist  in  his  iron 
grasp  and  twisted  it  upward.  The  knife  pointed 
skyward  from  the  impotent  fingers. 

""  Drop  it." 

It  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  That  would  have  been  a  pity,"  said  Enoch. 

"  Damn  you,"  said  Loiseau. 
185 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

"  Out  of  respect  to  the  lady,"  said  Enoch,  "  you 
will  not  swear  again." 

"  Let  me  go,"  snarled  Loiseau,  jerking  like  a 
trapped  animal. 

Enoch  released  his  hold,  but  transfixed  Loiseau 
with  a  look. 

"Listen  to  me." 

Loiseau  was  cowed  by  the  fallen  knife  between 
them. 

"  There  is  no  quarrel  between  us,  Loiseau.  Sara- 
rose,  not  I,  promised  you.  If  I  had  known  it,  she 
should  not  have  gone.  As  for  what  further  has  hap- 
pened to-day,  say  no  more  of  it.  You  are  excited. 
We  will  both  forget  it." 

Enoch  stooped  down  and  stuck  the  knife-blade 
into  the  ground. 

"  Go  home,"  he  said,  raising  himself. 

Again  that  look  passed  between  them.  Enoch  con- 
quered. 

"  Where  is  your  boat  ?"  as  if  in  answer  to  Loi- 
seau's  submission. 

"  Down  by  the  bend." 

Loiseau  turned  sullenly  on  his  heel,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  shadows  whence  he  had  come. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Miss  MacDonald,  so  sorry." 

"  What  a  terrible  face." 

"  He  has  been  drinking  and  did  not  know  what 
he  was  about." 

"  And  he  really  loves  your  sister  ?" 

"  You  see  of  what  sort  we  are  in  these  moun- 
tains," Enoch  answered,  a  little  bitterly. 

"  What  did  he  mean  about  Richard  Hollis- 
ter?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  I  assure  you.  He  was  wild. 
186 


An   Interruption 

He  did  his  best  to  rouse  me.  Do  you  know,  I  believe 
he  hates  me  more  than  he  loves  Sararose." 

"Why,  Mr.  Holme?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  Many  people  hate  me,  and  yet 
there  is  not  one  of  them  for  whom  I  would  not  do 
much." 

"  Thev  don't  .understand  vou,"  said  Alison,  qui- 
etly. 

They  regained  the  upland,  and  were  hailed  at  a 
distance  by  some  of  their  party. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Alison,  "  that  you  do  not  think 
well  of  Mr.  Mayhew's  project  for  you  in  New  York. 
The  theological  school  would  open  such  a  great 
field." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think  better  of  it.  And  if  I 
could  have  Sararose  in  New  York  also,  I  would  be 
glad  to  give  Sararose  opportunity." 

"  Let  me  help  you  place  her  somewhere  if  you 
come.  She  has  such  a  charming  voice,  and  she  is 
musical  to  her  very  finger-tips." 

Alison,  after  the  disagreeable  episode,  recovered 
her  spirits  in  planning  for  Enoch  and  Sararose  a 
rose-colored  future. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
Down-Stream 

"  SIT  still,  sit  very,  very  still." 

"  And  what  shall  I  see  ?" 

"  Listen." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Do  you  hear  that  puff-puff  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Now,  do  you  see  ?" 

"Where?"" 

"  Listen." 

Fluff,  pluff,  whisk,  whisk,  crkle,  crkle  in  the 
brown  curly  duff,  and  the  ecstatic  whispers  of  the 
two  under  the  basswood  dropped  to  breathlessness. 
The  little  bull's-eye  camera  was  on  the  man's  knee, 
cocked  and  primed  for  assault.  The  girl  sat  frozen 
to  her  first  shy  attitude,  a  hand  on  Richard's  sleeve, 
head  bent  towards  him  like  sunflower's  expectancy. 
The  little  partridges,  bronzy,  fluffy,  unconscious, 
gabbled  onward,  scattering  away  from  the  capacious- 
breasted,  roving-eyed  mother,  rocking  to  the  rear- 
ward of  them. 

"  Shall  I  ?"  asked  Richard,  with  muscular  arm- 
hint,  understood  by  Sararose's  fingers. 

"  Very  slowly,  smoothly — " 

Richard's  hand  crept  out  towards  the  lever,  as 
188 


Down-Stream 

slow  and  smooth  as  the  sliding  of  a  cloud.  The 
young  partridges  nibbled  appreciatively  over  a  rich 
find  of  ground-berry.  Some  quick,  subtle  instinct 
thrilled  them  to  pungent  dread.  Their  round,  gleam- 
ing eyes  apprehended  the  first  experience  of  man. 

The  shutter  snapped  under  Richard's  finger,  and, 
so  immediate,  was  almost  simultaneous.  Mother 
Partridge  whirred  noisily  upward.  The  well-train- 
ed progeny  obliterated  themselves  in  moveless  simu- 
lation of  leaf,  stump,  knoll. 

"  Hallelujah,  'tis  done,"  cried  Richard,  pulling 
Sararose  to  her  feet  along  with  him.  "  I  should 
have  gone  mad  to  keep  still  a  moment  longer.  Where 
are  they  all,  Sararose?" 

"  There,  but  you  can't  see  them." 

"  Clever  little  pieces.  Lying  low,  eh  ?  I  never 
understood  it  so  well  before,  lying  low !" 

"  You  will  send  me  one  of  the  pictures  ?" 

Richard  gave  the  careless  acquiescence  of  a  camera 
owner. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  others  have  been  doing. 
Whatever  it  is,  Mrs.  Ruddle  is  sure  to  have  come  in 
winner.  We  shall  get  a  deer  as  we  canoe  home,  don't 
you  think?" 

Sararose  hoped  she  might  share  a  canoe  with  Rich- 
ard. He  had  such  a  fascinating  way  of  asking  her 
advice  while  he  petted  her  with  his  eyes. 

"  Oh  yes.  The  does  will  go  down  to  the  runway 
to  feed,  and  you  will  wear  the  little  light  in  your 
cap,  and  they  will  stand  still  to  look." 

"  A  new  way  of  jacking,"  said  Richard.  "  Bang, 
bang,  goes  our  flash-light,  and  splash,  splash,  goes 
the  deer,  and  we  have  not  murdered  anything.  We 
keep  the  pictures  for  our  pains,  and  Madame  Doe 

189 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

has  the  experience.  Dashed  if  T  ever  enjoyed  mark- 
ing down  a  mother  beside  her  fawns." 

Richard  planned  to  get  Alison  for  the  quiet  down- 
stream in  the  crisp  September  starlight.  He  quite 
forgot  the  little  country  girl  whose  head  swam  with 
vari-colored  ambitions.  So  do  we  walk  in  life,  side 
by  side,  apparently  comrades,  verily  at  cross  pur- 
poses that  defy  each  other. 

Not  being  of  an  analytic  mind,  he  could  not  have 
told  what  it  was  in  Alison  that  he  loved.  The  woman 
of  her,  animal  and  spiritual,  appealed  to  the  man 
of  him.  She  was  all  curve,  no  angle.  She  seemed  to 
enfold  you  with  her  voice,  her  eyes,  and  he  was  used 
to  her.  Such  unthinking  lovership  had  best  beware 
surprises,  the  storming  of  the  heart  by  a  fresh  ex- 
perience bursting  on  one  like  shrapnel-shell  in  the 
darkness,  an  onset  from  which  there  is  no  retreat. 

Alison  had  often  told  herself  why  she  loved  Rich- 
ard, the  careless,  sure  chivalry  of  him,  the  unreckon- 
ing  generosity,  the  loyal  comradery,  all  that  is 
summed  up  in  the  despised  epithet  good-heartedness. 
Coupled  with  a  winning  smile  and  a  brave  mien, 
good-heartedness  casts  off  its  homely  weeds  and  be- 
comes, instead  of  plain  Guyon,  Orlando  of  the  sword, 
or  Bayard  with  the  knee-buckles  flashing. 

"  Little  sweetheart,"  said  Alison,  crushing  Mary 
in  her  arms,  a  bunch  of  crumpled  sun-bonnet,  tangly 
curls,  and  tiredness.  "  Have  you  had  a  good  time  ?" 

Mary  cuddled  into  the  curve  of  Alison's  arms,  and 
rested  her  flushed  little  face  on  the  loving  shoulder 
in  a  way  that  bespoke  not  of  company  caresses. 

"  I  have  sawn  evlyzing,"  she  cried,  "  and  evlyzing 
was  nice.  And  will  you  tell  me  a  stoly,  Alison  ?" 

Alison  held  her  in  her  lap,  smoothing  her  curls 
100 


Down-Stream 

and  kissing  her  dimples,  and,  in  fact,  loving  her  so 
lavishly  that  Enoch,  on  the  shore,  loading  the  boats 
and  pushing  off  the  fleet  one  by  one,  felt  like  a 
starved  man  serving  at  a  feast.  Richard  stood  by, 
hands  in  his  pockets,  smiling  down  on  the  two  of 
them. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Dick  ?" 

Olive  cheek  and  black  hair  against  Mary's  rose- 
leaf  and  bronze  color,  she  looked  up  at  him.  Her 
wood-colored  covert  cloth,  man-tailored  and  severe, 
clinging  to  the  swell  of  her  bosom  and  the  rich  curves 
of  her  limbs,  emphasized  the  woman  of  her  caressing 
attitude. 

"  I'm  waiting  for  the  crumbs,  Alison." 

He  bent  over,  made  bold  by  the  gathering  twilight, 
and  snatched  a  kiss  from  the  soft  triangle  below  the 
tip  of  her  ear. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  all  day,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  We  will  go  home  together." 

Enoch,  suddenly  returning  for  the  camera  left 
on  the  shore,  became  unwilling  witness  of  this  little 
passage.  The  muscles  stiffened  about  his  mouth. 
He  wore  the  look  of  a  man  who  has  swallowed  bitter 
medicine. 

"  Now  the  stoly,"  fluted  Mary,  sitting  between 
Alison's  feet  as  they  pushed  off  in  the  twilight.  The 
cool  leaf-burdened  scent  of  autumn  evening  brushed 
their  senses.  It  carried  the  first  faint  suggestion  of 
remote  snow,  mingled  with  memory  of  harvest 
moons.  A  little  pale-stepping  frost  began  to  silver 
the  fallen  leaves.  Alison  wrapped  a  rug  around 
Mary,  saying: 

"  A  story,  Mary  ?  Tell  me  one,  of  what  you  have 
seen  to-day." 

191 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  Once  upon  a  time  is  lublier  yan  to  -  day," 
philosophized  Mary.  "  And  your  stolies  are  such 
velly  lubly  stolies,  Alison." 

"  What  shall  it  be,  sweetheart  ?" 

"  Dlagons  and  witches  and  littly  boys  zat  get  all 
losted." 

The  child's  creative  fancy  kindled  dramatic  ten- 
derness in  her  voice. 

Enoch,  noiselessly  stroking  behind  them  with  his 
sister  and  June  Hollister,  heard  every  word  of  the 
pretty  duet.  It  struck  to  his  heart  like  a  love-potion. 
As  the  twilight  gathers  down  and  stars  tremble  forth, 
one's  ears  are  attuned  more  delicately  than  at  other 
hours,  and  sound  becomes  like  heard  color  or  dream- 
ed-of  taste,  something  rare,  remote. 

"  You  will  help  me  with  the  story,  Mary  ?" 

"  I  want  a  littly  boy  who  lives  in  a  glate  big  woods. 
Zen  a  witch  lady  who  steals  him  away.  Now,  Ali- 
son, tell  me." 

"  There  was  a  little  boy,"  said  Alison,  in  an  in- 
teresting initiatory  manner,  "  who  lived  in  the  great 
big  woods." 

There  were  nods  of  satisfaction  from  the  small 
girl  on  the  hemlock  boughs.  Alison,  bending  tow- 
ards Richard  over  the  little  head,  exchanged  a  smile 
over  the  innocence  of  her  story  listener. 

"  You  artful  Scheherazade,"  murmured  Richard, 
letting  his  paddle  rest  across  the  gunwales  while  he 
stripped  himself  of  his  coat. 

"  Now  is  ze  time  for  ze  witch  lady." 

"  Then  down  from  the  hill-top  strode  a  witch," 
said  Alison,  melodramatically. 

"  Up  from  the  city  floated  a  witch,"  said  Enoch, 
at  his  paddle. 

192 


Down-Stream 

"  Zat  is  'zackly  ze  way." 

"  She  wore  a  black  pointed  cap,  with  two  tails 
hanging  down  behind." 

This  was  a  daring  stroke  that  met  with  instant 
success. 

"Did  she?"  excitedly;  "and  a  bloomstick ?" 

"  A  broomstick  walking  along  by  itself  and  behind 
her  ten  black  cats." 

"  Oh,"  ecstatically.  "  And  now  is  ze  time  for  ze 
littly  boy  to  be  losted  away." 

"  He  loses  himself  and  follows  her,"  said  Enoch, 
at  his  paddle. 

"  You  know  how,  Alison,"  patronizingly.  "  Zat 
was  splendid  about  ze  cats,"  in  a  burst  of  reminis- 
cent admiration. 

Listen,"  said  Kichard.    "  Do  you  hear  that  roar- 


ing?" 


He  let  the  canoe  drift  slowly  down  -  stream  past 
the  ghostly  alder-woods  and  water-maples.  The  sky 
was  all  tints  of  melted  green,  and  the  stars  shone 
wet,  as  if  seen  through  tears. 

"  It  sounds  like  the  Elder  River,"  Alison  said, 
"  but  it  can't  be." 

"  It  is,"  Enoch  replied,  who  was  close  behind 
them ;  "  Lone  Falls  on  the  Elder  River,  a  quarter- 
mile  away,  as  the  bird  flies,  across  this  strip  of  wood- 
land." 

"  Ah,  these  mountains !"  exclaimed  Alison,  be- 
wildered. "  These  winding  streams !  Your  knowl- 
edge is  a  miracle.  What  do  you  go  by  ?" 

"  One  must  be  born  to  them,"  Enoch  re- 
plied. 

"  Now  I  should  have  said  that  Elder  River  was 
off  there  to  the  west." 

N  193 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  So  it  is,"  laughed  Bichard.  "  Both  east  and 
west  of  us,  isn't  it,  Holme?" 

"  It  crosses  my  land  three  times,"  said  Enoch, 
"  in  as  many  different  directions." 

"  Why  did  the  littly  boy  follow  ze  witch  lady  ?" 
interpolated  Mary,  lifting  a  small  face  to  Alison's. 

While  Alison  continued  the  tale,  Enoch,  listening 
to  the  fairy  roaring  of  the  invisible  river,  could  not 
but  think  of  the  moonlight  night,  so  long  ago,  a  life- 
time ago  it  seemed,  and  the  foolish  hopes  that  had 
curved  their  rainbows  over  his  heart  and  faded  away 
again  into  night.  Exquisite  apparitions  of  light  and 
color,  like  the  gauzy  miraculous  circle  that  had 
bound  him  and  Alison  together  at  Lost  Inn  that  un- 
forgettable afternoon.  Well,  it  was  something  to  have 
stood  once  within  a  rainbow  by  the  one  woman's 
side. 

"  Where  shall  he  go,  Mary  ?" 

"  To  ze  witch  lady's  house." 

"How  far?" 

"  'Bout  free  miles." 

"  They  whisked  him  off  to  the  witch's  house,  about 
three  miles  away,  a  dark,  gloomy  house,  with  blinds 
fast  closed." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  wrong,"  said  Enoch.  "  The 
witch  lady's  house  was  set  on  a  hill  and  was  full  of 
windows,  and  the  light  poured  into  them  till  they 
shone  like  the  sun." 

"  The  little  boy  entered  and  sat  down  in  a  chair. 
The  broomstick  trotted  off  behind  the  door,  and  the 
ten  cats  lay  down  by  the  fire-place." 

"  Now  ze  witch  lady  gives  him  somezing  to 
eat.  Hollid,  you  know.  And  what  was  in  it — flogs' 
eyes  ?" 

194 


Down-Stream 

"  She  gave  him  some  pudding,  horrid,  with  frogs' 
eyes  in  it." 

A  sigh  of  sympathetic  disgust  came  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat. 

"  Black  as  zat  hole  in  ze  tleess  ?"  Mary  pointed 
to  the  shuddering  shore. 

"  Blacker,  but,  as  it  happened,  the  witch  went  up- 
stairs— 

"  Weak  point,"  interpolated  Richard,  "  such  con- 
fiding innocence  on  her  part." 

"  While  ze  witch  lady  is  gone,"  said  the  inventive 
listener,  with  foresight,  "  he  can  put  ze  pudding  in 
his  pottit,  unless  it  was  soft  pudding." 

Mary  had  full  confidence  in  the  story-teller,  but 
the  possibilities  of  custard-pudding  in  one's  pocket 
were  staggering.  "  Now  he  must  tly  to  get  away,  ze 
poor  littly  boy." 

"  But  the  witch  came  back  and  caught  him  by  the 
hair." 

"  Oh,"  Mary  cooed,  sympathetically.  "  Now  he 
must  be  putted  in  ze  dark  closet." 

"  She  put  him  in  a  closet  up-stairs." 

"  It  would  be  better  to  have  it  down-stairs." 

"  I  was  mistaken ;  it  was  down-stairs." 

"  Anything  in  it  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Not  a  chair  ?" 

"  No." 

"Nor  a  hook?" 

"  No." 

"  Tould  he  tu'n  round  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Tould  he  lean  against  the  wall  ?" 

"  He  could." 

195 


The   Strength   of  the  Hills 

"  Ah !"  came  Mary's  voice  of  relief. 

"  And  that  is  the  first  chapter,  Mary.  We  will 
leave  him  in  the  closet." 

"  It  is  a  lubly  stoly,"  breathed  Mary,  patting  Ali- 
son's knee.  "  Mav  I  ax  vou  some  questions  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  ze  witch  ladv  do  when  she  went  up- 
stairs ?" 

"  She  talked  with  her  owl." 

"  Oh,  did  she  have  an  owl  ?" 

"  Yes ;  it  sat  on  the  head  of  her  bed,  on  the  right- 
hand  post." 

"  It  would  have  been  a  littly  bit  nicer,"  mused 
Mary,  delicately,  "  to  have  had  two,  one  for  each 
post."  Mary  had  an  eye  for  symmetry. 

"  The  facts  of  the  case  were,"  Alison  doggedly 
returned,  "  that  there  was  only  one  owl." 

"  Had  zere  always  been  only  one  ?" 

Here  was  a  chance  for  concession.  "  There  had 
been  two,  but  the  cats  ate  one  owl." 

"  Oh !" 

Mary's  voice  was  sleepy,  but  satisfied. 

Richard  sent  the  boat  ahead  with  long,  smooth 
hisses.  The  water  plashed  comfortably  against  the 
thin  keel.  The  trees  chipped  darkness,  and  the 
purple  heights  were  pricked  with  hesitant  star- 
light. 

"Holme,  Holme." 

A  voice  assailed  the  night.  Nixon  had  pulled  up 
by  the  shore,  and  he  and  Ysobel  clung  to  the  deer- 
grass  till  Enoch  should  come  in  sight. 

"  You've  lost  your  way,  Nixie,"  said  Ysobel,  sol- 
emnly. "  You  can't  manage  Mallarme  and  an  Adi- 
rondack skiff  together." 

196 


Down-Stream 

"  Mallarme,"  growled  the  painter.     "  It  was  my 

own." 

"  Equally  pernicious.  And  now  we're  side-tracked 
in  the  wilderness  at  an  unearthly  hour,  and  my 
youth  and  morals  will  be  corrupted,  mon  Dieu!" 

There  was  calling,  and  handkerchief  waving,  and 
fumbling  for  matches,  sputterings,  and  extinguish- 
ments, but  finally  Ysobel  waved  the  lighted  lantern, 
and  the  dim  shadows  resolved  themselves  to  canoe- 
shapes  and  were  localized  by  answering  voices.  The 
Tippy  Canoe  and  the  Happy  Home  touched  sides 
with  the  Me  and  Her  in  its  moorings  among  the 
rushes. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Enoch,  "  you  would  have  gone 
astray  in  here.  This  is  an  inlet  that  runs  a  mile  or 
two  in  a  cranberry-bog.  Where  are  the  Hollisters?" 

"  They  turned  in  here  fifteen  minutes  ago,  didn't 
they,  Ysobel  ?  You  remember  they  called  to  us." 

"  And  you  wouldn't  let  me  answer  them,  you 
Nixie.  Was  it  Verlaine  or  Mxonese  that  you 
stopped  my  mouth  withal  ?" 

"  They  are  grounded  by  this  time,  then,"  remark- 
ed Enoch,  dryly. 

Mary  roused  herself  at  this  exciting  moment  of 
stoppage. 

"  Have  we  come  to  ze  witch  lady's  house,  Alison? 
Was  ze  witch  a  pretty  lady  ?  Do  there  be  beyutiful 
witch  ladies  ?" 

"  This  witch  was  beautiful,"  Enoch  took  it  upon 
himself  to  answer,  as  Mary's  demands  were  neglected 
in  the  general  confusion. 

June  and  Sararose,  at  his  suggestion,  disposed 
themselves  respectively  in  the  Happy  Home  and  the 
Me  and  Her,  while  Enoch  stripped  himself  of  his 

197 


The   Strength  of  the   Hills 

shoes  and  stockings,  rolled  up  his  trousers,  and, 
armed  with  paddle  and  iron-tipped  punting  -  pole, 
started  off  in  the  Tippy  Canoe. 

"  It's  simply  a  question  of  dragging  the  boat,"  he 
said,  in  answer  to  June's  question.  "  Wading  and 
pulling  get  a  boat  up  the  shallows  the  quickest." 

He  shot  out  of  sight  in  the  darkness,  while  June 
shivered  at  the  thought  of  a  plunge  in  cold  water, 
and  Sararose  wondered  at  one  of  Mrs.  Ruddle's  low- 
toned  speeches  that  made  the  dust-colored  man  laugh 
so  gloatingly.  Little  Mary,  still  hugging  closely  her 
picture  of  a  "  beyutiful "  lady  with  shiny  eyes,  was 
tucked  away  in  the  stern  wTith  an  extra  rug,  and  soon 
fell  into  blissful  sleep.  Richard  sat  in  the  bow,  his 
knees  close  to  Alison's,  and  facing  her.  The  pad- 
dles, stuck  in  the  bottom,  kept  the  boats  inshore  and 
together. 

"  Alison,"  was  all  he  said,  laying  his  hand  in 
her  lap.  She  put  her  hand  over  his  and  they  sat 
quiet. 

Ysobel,  Nixon,  and  June  talked  idly  at  intervals, 
listlessly,  as  befits  a  homeward  voyage.  Sararose, 
shivering  a  little  and  lonely,  was  conscious  of  cur- 
rents of  life  about  her  of  which  she  was  not  a  part 
and  which  she  did  not  comprehend.  Enoch  returned 
with  the  wanderers,  and  they  again  set  off  down- 
stream under  the  stars. 

"  Turn  always  to  the  left,"  said  he,  as  he  paddled 
out  in  advance,  Richard  close  following,  "  and  you 
come  to  the  lake  in  twenty  minutes.  The  rapids  are 
easily  managed.  Lift  your  paddles,  and  you're  car- 
ried over  like  a  feather." 

"  No  danger  at  all,"  said  the  painter,  mock-sooth- 
ingly to  Ysobel,  who  was  the  daringest  spirit  at 

198 


Down-Stream 

camp,  "  unless  you  do  a  Concarneau  gavotte  in  the 
skiff—" 

"  And  you  fight  shy  of  ballades,"  said  Ysobel, 
lighting  her  cigarette  at  his  pipe,  "  especially  in 
Nixonese." 

Enoch's  boat  and  Richard's  slid  end  to  end  on  a 
loop  of  the  stream.  Enoch  lifted  his  paddle  and 
caught  the  boat  rim  of  the  Happy  Home,  letting  the 
two  skiffs  drift  together  down-stream.  He  leaned 
across  and  spoke  to  Alison,  as  if  she  alone  were 
there. 

"  We  will  turn  to  the  right  and  let  the  others  go 
by.  When  it  is  quiet  we  will  paddle  in  perfect  si- 
lence and  watch  the  deer.  There's  a  famous  runway 
a  bit  farther  down." 

He  fastened  the  little  lantern  to  Alison's  cap,  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"  You  have  your  camera  ?  And  the  picture  shall 
be  yours — yours." 

The  word  beat  upon  her  ear  like  something  of 
great  import. 

"  And  if  the  deer  should  not  come  ?"  he  thought, 
as  he  pushed  his  boat,  with  velvet  blade  severing  the 
water.  They  paused  and  waited,  Alison's  headlight 
streaking  out  in  wavy  red,  while  the  canoes  behind 
lay  inkily  blended  with  night. 

An  antlered  forehead  and  two  shining  eyes.  An- 
other beautiful  forehead,  another  pair  of  wondering 
eyes.  The  light  boats  rose  and  fell  with  the  breath  of 
suspense.  The  foreheads  and  the  eyes  at  the  end 
of  the  wavy  red  path  were  framed  in  ebony  branches 
that  dipped  to  the  water. 

"  'Not  yet,"  thrilled  Enoch.  "  They  are  curious. 
They  will  come  nearer." 

199 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

The  slow  -  splashing  legs  sent  out  wavelets  in 
widening  circles. 

"  Now !  While  they  are  but  knee  -  deep  in  the 
shallows." 

There  was  white  sheet  of  flame  and  a  quick  explo- 
sion. The  picture  was  taken.  The  deer  disappeared 
in  the  underbrush.  Alison  clapped  her  hands  softly. 

"  The  curtain's  gone  down.  Let's  go  home/' 
yawned  June. 

"  It  is  your  picture  as  well,"  said  Alison,  leaning 
to  Enoth  before  the  boats  separated. 

"  Mine  and  yours,  then." 

"  What  color  were  ze  witch  lady's  eyes  ?"  said  a 
little  voice,  awaking  from  the  pillows  of  the  stern. 

"  The  color  of  night,  sweetheart,"  Alison  answer- 
ed, in  the  matter-of-fact  way  that  amused  Richard. 

"  And  when  she  smiled  little  stars  came  out  in 
them,"  added  Enoch. 

"  Zey  were  zackly  ze  color  of  yours,  Alison.  Zat 
was  sort  of  funny,  wasn't  it,  Alison?" 


CHAPTER  XVin 
The    Social    at    Si's 

Si  NEWCOMERS  best  room  was  a  large,  square 
apartment,  redolent  of  gloom  and  state,  that  opened 
off  the  sunny,  well-scrubbed  kitchen.  In  the  kitchen 
was  the  big,  cheerful  range,  where  in  the  spring-time 
vats  of  sap  were  wont  to  simmer  for  the  sugaring- 
off  parties.  Kettles  of  soft-soap  spread  abroad  their 
steamy,  unctuous  odors,  and  on  winter  mornings  the 
hot  lard  hissed  about  the  curling  rings  of  doughnuts 
that  blushed  to  a  rosy  brown  in  the  angry  depths. 
In  an  alcove  stood  the  deep-quilted  bed  where  Granny 
Newcome  slept,  and  on  which,  at  social  functions, 
red-necked  swains  sat  in  a  grinning  row,  "  horsing  " 
each  other  to  relieve  their  embarrassment.  In  the 
best  room  hung  a  choice  assortment  of  pictures,  a 
haven  for  the  eyes  of  bashful  girls  when  in  the  agony 
of  an  introduction. 

There  was  a  lithograph  of  a  robin  clasping  a  log 
fence,  his  head  distressfully  heaven-gazing,  with  all 
the  traditional  meek  virtue  of  his  tribe  in  the  tilt 
of  his  fat  neck.  Much  admired  also  at  critical  mo- 
ments was  a  colored  print  of  Sunnyside,  a  snowy 
villa  above  a  torquoise  -  blue  Hudson,  whose  broad 
expanse  was  well  decorated  with  sails.  There  was 
emerald  grass,  a  winding  ochre  road,  bottle-green  ro- 

201 


The   Strength   of  the  Hills 

tundities  of  trees  casting  splendidly  solid  circum- 
ference of  shade,  and  Irving  himself,  reading  on  a 
rustic  bench,  with  a  hound  respectfully  watching, 
and  a  round-hatted  gardener  pushing  an  antiquated 
machine  across  the  green  lawn. 

These  two  works  of  art  had  been  given  as  school 
prizes  in  the  days  of  Granny  Newcome's  youth. 

At  half-past  seven  folks  began  to  arrive,  and  were 
marched  relentlessly  through  the  warm  enticements 
of  the  kitchen  to  the  arctic  splendors  of  the  carpeted 
room.  It  was  understood  that  the  Hollisters  and 
Miss  MacDonald  were  coming,  and  this  shed  an  extra 
gloom  over  the  opening  ceremonies. 

"  They  say  she's  awfully  nice,  just  as  common 
as  anybody,"  whispered  Nance  Hartle  to  Zuba 
Spriggs. 

u  Why  shouldn't  she  ?"  answered  Zuba,  aloud. 

A  meek  old  woman  glanced  in  astonishment  tow- 
ards the  voluble  corner.  People  who  would  speak 
out,  "  fust  off,"  at  a  social  awakened  her  resentful 
awe. 

"  She  hez  to  work  just  like  folks,  they  say,"  con- 
tinued Zuba.  "  She  clerks  for  Colonel  Hollister, 
I've  hearn  tell." 

"  Come  over  here,  Mame,"  as  young  Mrs.  Kitripp, 
from  Saranac,  entered  the  room,  stiffly  escorted  by 
Mrs.  JSTewcome,  who  always  did  the  honors  author- 
itatively. 

Mame  Kitripp  was  not  allowed  to  heed  this  insin- 
uating request,  however,  for  the  hair-cloth  arm-chair 
next  Mrs.  Gene  Lawless  was  destined  for  her  by 
the  hostess,  who  drew  sharp  lines  between  maid  and 
matron,  and  treated  her  guests  like  pieces  in  an  im- 
movable game.  Mame  sank  resignedly  between  the 

202 


The    Social    at   Si's 

slippery  arms  and  shot  a  smiling  glance  towards  her 
old-time  chums. 

Two  or  three  husbands  followed  their  wives  into 
the  room  and  took  their  assigned  places  with  sheep- 
ish smiles. 

A  burst  of  masculine  voices,  along  with  a  whiff 
of  cold  air,  came  from  the  entry. 

"  There's  the  boys ;  they  do  beat  all,"  remarked 
Zuba  to  Nance,  with  a  chuckle  of  anticipation. 

There  was  evidently  some  playful  altercation  be- 
tween the  masterful  hostess  and  the  "  boys,"  which 
culminated  in: 

"  Shack  right  along,  boys,  and  talk  to  the  gals. 
They  be  in  the  parlor." 

The  girls  waited  with  drawn  breath,  but  in  vain. 

"  They're  sitting  on  Granny's  bed,  I  do  declare," 
announced  Mame,  craning  her  neck  around  the  door. 

The  parlor  relapsed  into  dull  despair,  which  was 
soon  broken  in  upon  by  the  entrance  of  Eli  Barhite's 
wife.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  burst  like 
a  bomb  into  the  camp  of  lethargy. 

Her  huge,  jelly-like  figure  seemed  the  centre  and 
source  of  jollity,  her  little,  sparkling  eyes,  and  loose, 
large  laugh  set  on  fire  the  combustible  mirth  of  ev- 
ery gathering. 

Mrs.  Barhite  threw  her  hat  and  shawl  across  the 
room  into  Zuba's  lap. 

"  Ain't  she  the  greatest  ?  She  don't  cyare  about 
nothin',"  said  the  meek  woman. 

"  Take  them  and  keep  ye  warm  till  the  boys  come 
in,"  shouted  Mrs.  Barhite.  "  You  gals  look  like 
picked  chickens  in  a  fence  corner." 

Mrs.  Barhite,  by  way  of  a  practical  joke,  plumped 
herself  into  a  very  small  and  feeble  chair, 

203 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  Where  you  goin'  to  set,  Eli  ?  Looks  like  there 
ain't  no  room  for  a  big  man  in  here !" 

Eli  Barhite,  spindle-legged,  with  a  semicircular 
black  mustache  trimming  his  gaunt  face,  looked  ner- 
vously about,  expecting  the  guffaw  that  would  greet 
this  sally.  He  wore  the  bitter  humility  of  the  mas- 
culine object  of  conjugal  wit.  He  was  one  of  the 
chief  "  setters  "  at  Eddie's,  and  always  to  be  counted 
on  for  a  game  of  cards  in  the  back  room. 

The  parlor  began  to  bristle  with  jocose  advice  to 
Eli,  and  the  ice  was  broken.  Mrs.  Barhite  got  up 
and  moved  ponderously  about  the  room,  bestowing  a 
joke  here  and  a  nudge  there,  till  she  reached  the 
doorway,  and  espied  the  young  men  in  the  kitchen. 
She  roared  with  simulated  indignation  and  con- 
tempt. 

"  Haw !  haw !  if  you  don't  look  like  you  was  glued 
there,  stuffed  crows  on  a  snow-bank.  I'll  be  blowed ! 
Come  in  here  and  spark  with  them  girls  in  the  cor- 
ner. You're  a  husky  bunch.  Come  along !" 

The  masculine  phalanx  transferred  itself  to  its 
proper  environment,  and,  amid  general  merriment, 
the  people  gathered  into  congenial  groups.  The 
friend  of  humanity  hobnobbed  with  Mrs.  Newcome 
in  the  kitchen  over  the  subject  of  the  evening's  re- 
freshments. 

"  She  puts  me  in  mind  of  one  of  them  dynamite 
fuses,"  said  Spriggs,  reflectively.  "  We  be  a  log- 
jam, durned  logs  all  laying  quiet,  and  she  starts  the 
jam  like  thet,  crack  out  o'  the  box." 

"  Ah,  go  along !"  came  an  unexpected  rejoinder 
from  the  kitchen.  "  A  dynamite  fuse  is  a  mighty 
little  thing." 

"  These  be  giant  fuses,"  said  Eli,  cynically,  em- 
204 


The    Social    at   Si's 

boldened  by  the  intervention  of  a  wall  between  him- 
self and  the  voice. 

"  Thet's  all  right — I'll  giant  you !"  responded  Mrs. 
Eli,  with  nimble  repartee,  appreciated  even  by 
Granny  in  the  stove  corner,  whose  withered  chin 
shook  in  the  recesses  of  her  frilled  neckerchief. 

"  Come  right  in,  Colonel  Hollister.  Miz  Hollis- 
ter,  let  me  take  your  shawl.  How  be  you,  Miss 
Alison  ?"  Mrs.  Newcome's  metallic  greetings  her- 
alded the  arrival  of  the  camp  folks. 

"  We've  come  all  in  a  bunch,"  said  Alison. 

"  Quite  an  invasion,"  added  Mrs.  Hollister,  whose 
vocabulary  was  sure  to  introduce  the  note  of  differ- 
ence that  made  country  people  draw  in  their  skirts 
suspiciously.  "  You  know  my  son,  Richard." 

"  Awfully  glad  to  be  here,  Mrs.  Newcome,"  said 
Richard's  hearty,  mellow  voice.  "  I  met  your  daugh- 
ter, Miss  Maybelle,  at  the  party  last  July." 

Richard  had  been  primed  beforehand  by  Alison. 

"  Step  up,  Miss  Maybelle,"  commanded  the  moth- 
er, confused  into  bestowing  this  title  by  young  Hoi- 
lister's  affability. 

A  tall  girl  in  a  tight  red  waist  came  out  of  the 
pantry,  and  wiped  her  floury  hands  on  the  roller- 
towel  before  shaking  hands  with  Hollister.  He  saw 
at  once  that  he  never  would  have  remembered  her, 
a  lapse  of  memory  which  gave  his  manner  an  added 
shade  of  cordiality. 

"  Don't  bother  about  us,"  said  Alison,  who  saw 
that  Mrs.  Newcome  was  in  the  midst  of  culinary 
preparation.  "  We'll  just  go  into  the  parlor  and — ': 

"  You  have  such  a  cosey  kitchen,  I  want  to  sit 
right  down  here  and  visit  with  you,"  purred  Mrs. 
Hollister,  effusively.  In  her  endeavors  to  set  people 

205 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

at  their  ease  she  leaped  over  the  natural  barriers 
like  an  impetuous  army,  but  Mrs.  Newcome  manned 
her  bulwarks  stoutly. 

"  Come  with  me  and  I'll  make  you  acquainted." 
Mrs.  Newcome's  eagle  eye  pointed  the  way  to  the 
parlor. 

Colonel  Hollister,  who  had  a  knack  of  fitting  in 
comfortably  with  any  surroundings,  had  already 
joined  the  majority,  and  was  discussing  causes  of 
dry  rot  in  timber  with  the  elder  Loiseau.  Mrs. 
Newcome  went  through  the  round  of  introductions 
with  vigorous  celerity. 

"  I'm  stirring  the  eggs  straight  into  this  batter," 
called  Eli's  wife  from  the  kitchen,  in  the  fateful  tone 
of  one  announcing  a  catastrophe. 

"  And  Miz  Spriggs,  Miz  Hollister,"  finished  Mrs. 
Newcome,  briskly,  making  her  exit. 

The  social  was  a  more  than  ordinarily  significant 
affair,  cementing  as  it  did  the  final  reconciliation  of 
the  Loiseaus  and  the  ^ewcomes.  Only  old  Si  held 
out  with  all  the  obduracy  of  the  very  aged,  and  had 
retired  for  the  evening  to  the  woodshed,  where  he 
warmed  his  hands  by  a  cracked  and  rusty  stove. 
Later  in  the  evening,  when  the  fun  waxed  fast  and 
furious,  and  "  borrow  and  lend  "  alternated  feverish- 
ly with  "  Pop  goes  the  weasel,"  various  young  men 
sought  the  woodshed's  retirement,  somewhat,  as  amid 
other  surroundings,  young  men  seek  a  moment's  re- 
laxation from  the  ball  in  the  freedom  of  the  smoking- 
room  or  the  coolness  of  the  conservatory.  Old  Si, 
smoothing  his  stubbly  white  goatee  with  blue,  bent 
fingers,  regaled  the  young  men  with  bitter  recollec- 
tions on  his  daughter-in-law's  foolishness  and  with 
confidences  concerning  his  own  unhappv  lot  as  hewer 

206 


The    Social  at    Si's 

of  wood  and  drawer  of  water  in  the  place  where  he 
had  once  been  lord  of  the  manor. 

"  There  hain't  a  Hartle  come  yet,  be  there  ?" 
grinned  the  cynical  old  man  at  the  two  woodshed 
visitors. 

"  Yaas,  Nance  Hartle,  a  good  spell  back." 

"  She's  awfully  taken  up  with  Ezra's  oldest  boy, 
so  she'd  come,  whether  or  no.  There  wasn't  never 
no  sperrit  abaout  Nance's  mother's  folks.  They  was 
kin  to  the  Charbonneaus,  and  every  last  shaver  of  a 
Charbonneau  'ud  lick  the  boots  of  anybody  as  'ud 
stop  to  let  him.  Loiseau  come  ?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Nor  won't  till  kingdom  come.  Ef  Enoch 
Holme's  got  horse  sense,  he's  sense  enough  to  know 
that  what  folks  says  in  meetin'  they  eats  at  leisure. 
Lord-forgive-'ems  comes  an  off-sight  slicker  than 
howdy-dos.  You  won't  see  no  damn  Loiseau  shake 
with  no  Newcome  this  night,  or  my  name  ain't  Si 
Newcome.  How  ?  What's  that  ?" 

"  Somebody  coming  in." 

Old  Si  peered  out  of  the  woodshed  door  into  the 
covered  passage  that  connected  with  the  kitchen.  By 
this  modest  entrance  a  group  of  people  passed  whom 
old  Si,  the  back  of  his  hand  held  to  his  mouth,  desig- 
nated to  the  young  men  by  the  cracked  stove  as 
"  Holme's  folks." 

"  And  Tyke  Loiseau  at  end  of  the  string,"  re- 
marked old  Si,  as  the  kitchen  door  opened  and  let 
a  flood  of  lamplight  on  the  backs  of  the  new-comers. 

He  spit  contemptuously  into  his  hands,  and  rubbed 
his  two  palms  together  as  if  he  were  still  chopping 
wood.  ; 

"  There's  a  wumman  at  the  bottom  of  it,  allus  a 
207 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

wumman,"  he  growled,  unaware  that  he  was  speak- 
ing to  himself,  the  two  young  men  having  hastened 
away  to  witness  the  clashing  of  the  clans,  for  of  all 
concerned  in  the  feud  none  had  been  so  bitter  as 
young  Si's  wife  and  Tyke  Loiseau. 

"  It's  Holme's  gal  as  brings  him  along,"  remarked 
the  old  man  by  his  stove.  "  He'd  be  stiffer  then  a 
stick  of  frozen  spruce  if  'twarn't  for  that  gal.  Allus 
a  wumman." 

Old  Si  hugged  to  himself  the  consciousness  of 
unabating  resolution,  and  tried  to  shut  his  senses 
from  the  delightful  odor  of  fried  cakes  and  syrup 
that  floated  through  the  chinks  into  his  self-chosen 
cell. 

Mrs.  Newcome  stood  at  the  stove,  one  energetic 
hand  on  her  hip,  the  other  holding  the  cake-turner 
above  the  griddle,  where  the  buckwheat-cakes  had 
begun  to  bubble  and  rise  almost  ready  for  the  turn- 
ing. The  entrance  of  the  new-comers  by  the  back 
door — it  was  affectation  in  Elk  Mountain  to  use 
any  other  entrance — diverted  her  from  her  task.  She 
saw  that  the  critical  moment  had  arrived.  The  first 
glance  she  met  was  Loiseau's  black  and  glittering 
one.  Although  he  came  last  and  was  dwarfed  even 
to  insignificance  by  Mrs.  John  Holme's  bosom  and 
Enoch's  towering  shoulders,  yet,  by  the  irresistible 
magnetism  that  draws  together  the  eyes  of  those  who 
love  or  hate  each  other,  their  looks  crossed  before 
Tyke  had  closed  the  door. 

u  Dear  me  suz,  Enoch,"  she  said,  laying  her  turn- 
er upon  the  table,  "  I'm  right  glad  to  see  you ;  you 
'ain't  been  here  since  Lizzie's  funeral.  She  was  aw- 
ful took  up  with  you." 

She  spoke  of  her  dead  daughter  in  the  dry  and 
208 


The    Social   at    Si's 

practical  tone  which  is  characteristic  of  the  Elk 
mountaineer. 

"  Sararose,  you're  as  purty  as  a  drawing-picture 
in  that  black  hat.  I  declare,  it's  a  shame  to  let  you 
take  it  off." 

Mrs.  Newcome  was  staving  off  the  evil  hour  by 
extraordinary  effusiveness.  It  was  not  so  much  ill- 
feeling  as  embarrassment  that  made  this  final  meet- 
ing painful.  She  was  conscious  that  around  the 
parlor  door  Eli's  wife  and  Gene  Lawless  sat  with- 
in range  of  vision.  Loiseau,  unnoticed  by  her,  had 
possessed  himself  of  the  turner,  and  while  Mrs. 
Hewcome  kissed  Sararose's  cheek  he  turned  a  cake 
whose  edges  curled  up  warningly. 

"Here  is  Tyke. Loiseau,"  said  Enoch.  "He  has 
come  to  eat  your  delicious  pancakes." 

"  Hot  till  I've  turned  them,"  cried  Loiseau,  laugh- 
ing, and  tossing  over  the  second  cake. 

"  Lord  love  ye !"  said  Mrs.  Newcome,  heartily, 
as  she  saw  Tyke  rescuing  her  neglected  cakes 
from  scorching.  "  You've  saved  my  cakes !"  She 
was  more  won  over  by  Tyke's  handiness  than  she 
would  have  been  by  "  yards  of  palaver." 

"  I'll  finish  them,  Mrs.  Newcome,"  continued 
Tyke,  waving  his  weapon  airily.  "  You  can't  cook 
cakes  for  sour  apples  to-night." 

This  was  the  keenly  anticipated  reconciliation 
scene  over  which  Eli's  wife  and  Gene  Lawless  eager- 
ly craned  their  necks,  and  numerous  other  unfortu- 
nates out  of  eyeshot  and  earshot  suppressed  their 
curiosity  till  the  homeward  jaunt. 

Eddie,  the  store-keeper,  arrived  just  in  time  for 
the  Loiseau  cakes,  which,  done  to  a  turn  and  plen- 
tifully sandwiched  with  butter  and  maple  syrup, 
o  209 


The   Strength  of  the  Hills 

made  a  lordly  pile,  out  of  which  sections  were  cut 
that  appeased  the  physical,  if  not  the  mental,  appe- 
tite of  the  famous  social. 

"  I  reckon  this  ain't  what  you're  used  to,"  said 
Si  Newcome,  modestly,  as  Colonel  Hollister  in- 
clined gracious  spectacles  and  the  clerical  smile  tow- 
ards his  share  of  Adirondack  cakes. 

"  Mebbe  you'll  set  all  the  more  store  by  it."  said 
Si's  wife,  far  from  modestly.  "  City  folks  telled  me 
last  summer  that  these  here  Adirondack  cakes  you 
couldn't  get  nohow  in  the  city." 

"  They're  a  prime  article,  Mrs.  Newcome,"  Colo- 
nel Hollister's  benedictory  voice  replied,  "  and  cer- 
tainly cannot  be  surpassed. 

"  Thet's  right,  they  can't  be  beat,"  interpreted 
Eddie,  the  wag,  folded  snugly  among  a  bunch  of 
tittering  girls. 

He  demonstrated  his  assent  by  boldly  seizing 
Nance  Hartle's  section  and  carrying  it  to  his  plate, 
to  the  huge  delight  and  pretended  wrath  of  his  fe- 
male satellites. 

Mrs.  John  Holme  and  Mrs.  John  Hollister  sat 
side  by  side.  They  had  passed  the  glacial  epoch 
where  experimental  amo?bse  of  conversational  effort 
lay  embedded  in  the  ice  of  mutual  non-understand- 
ing, and  had  reached  the  stone  age  of  social  inter- 
course. Mrs.  Hollister's  well-meant  impertinences 
rattled  along  Mrs.  John  Holme's  front  of  calm  si- 
lence. She  found  it  difficult  to  get  hold  of  people 
except  from  the  vantage-point  of  favor  bestowed. 
Advice  and  sympathy,  her  special  line,  were  clear- 
ly out  of  place  to-night.  Mrs.  Holme  was  a  deep- 
bosomed,  placid  matron  who  exchanged  the  frivo- 
lous small  coin  of  intercourse  for  nuggets  of  quiet, 

210 


The    Social    at   Si's 

that  sooner  or  later  made  her  vis-a-vis  feel  the  in- 
effectualness  of  speech.  The  neighbor  who  came  to 
her  house  to  "  sit  and  visit "  went  away  inexpres- 
sibly soothed.  One  grew  well  acquainted  with  her 
by  virtue  of  her  reticence.  Mrs.  Hollister,  having 
beaten  an  extraordinary  extent  of  territory  for  a 
subject  of  common  interest,  finally  called  in  her 
pack  of  hounds,  and  resolved  to  sit  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree  and  wait. 

"  This  here  game  law  is  a  sell,"  Gene  was  saying 
to  Colonel  Hollister,  "  with  every  damn  warden 
looking  out  for  his  own  section.  I  kin  jest  tell  you 
there  be  more  deer  kilt  in  winter  than  all  the  sport- 
ing fellows  shoots  in  season." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Hollister,  quietly, 
who,  being  a  State  Commissioner,  took  a  deep  inter- 
est in  the  matter. 

"  Just  this,  cunnel ;  no  one's  going  to  fetch  up 
his  neighbor  before  a  justice  jist  for  killin'  meat. 
And  them  deer  be  ourn,  anyhow,  more'n  those  guys 
that  sets  at  Albany  and  passes  laws  and  regula- 
tions." 

"  What  would  you  suggest  ?" 

"  What  would  I  sujest  ?  I'd  sujest  that,  if  them 
laws  is  meant  to  be  followed,  they  send  up  some 
damn  fool  from  New  York  who  won't  have  no  feelin' 
abaout  enforcing  them  on  we  fellers.  Them's  my 
sujections,  cunnel." 

Gene  passed  a  hairy  hand  over  his  mustache  ends 
and  regarded  the  colonel  combatively. 

"  But  a  New  York  man  wouldn't  be  apt  to  know 
the  woods,"  urged  Hollister,  gently. 

"  The  devil  he  wouldn't.  I  seen  more  city  men 
lost  in  the  North  Woods  than  you  could  throw  a 

211 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

stick  at.  They're  a  green  lot,  beggin'  your  pardon, 
cunnel,  but  you  don't  belong  to  them,  for  your 
father  was  raised  in  Essex  County,  and  he  was  a 
woodsman  by  natural  right.  So  be  you,  I've  heard 
John  Holme  say." 

The  respect  felt  by  Elk  Mountain  for  a  true 
woodsman  was  only  equalled  by  its  contempt  for 
one  ignorant  of  the  craft. 

"  Gol,  some  of  them  fellows  dozen't  know  up  hill 
from  down,  and  I  see  one  fell  a  tree  and  ast  me  af- 
terwards what  an  undercut  was." 

"  Enoch,  he  be  a  master  hand  at  cutting  timber," 
whispered  Eli  Barhite,  in  the  subdued  tone  cus- 
tomary to  him  when  in  his  wife's  company.  "  I've 
seed  him  fell  a  young  spruce  so  true  as  to  drive  a 
stake  into  the  ground  twenty  feet  away." 

In  another  part  of  the  room  there  was  a  slight 
commotion  of  the  sort  that  generally  follows  a  re- 
quest that  some  one  will  sing  or  play.  Sararose 
promised  to  be  second  in  entertaining  the  social, 
but  first  Alison  must  amuse  them  by  some  of  her 
impersonations.  She  showed  in  quiet  monologue 
and  pantomime  a  girl  with  a  guide,  shooting  her 
first  deer. 

"  Ef  thet  ain't  jest  to  the  life,"  ejaculated  Gene. 
"  I  declare  to  't,  if  I  didn't  think  Miz  Ordway 
would  go  all  to  pieces  when  she  laid  eyes  on  her  fust 
deer.  There  he  was,  standin'  in  the  runway  jest 
as  nice,  as  she  let  out  a  scream  that  scart  the  bears 
on  top  of  Elk  Mounting.  Gol,  I  was  swearing  in- 
side, daown  into  my  boots." 

He  chuckled  grimly  at  the  recollection. 

"  A  milliner  and  her  customers,"  announced  Ali- 
son. This  little  skit  thrilled  the  female  portion  of 

212 


The  Social    at    Si's 

the  audience  with  unspeakable  delight.  Eli's  wife 
fairly  wept  into  Mrs.  Si's  apron. 

Human  nature  is  the  same  the  feminine  world 
over.  Elk  Mountain  did  not  boast  French  milli- 
nery establishments  where  confections  in  lace  and 
fur  burst  out  at  the  tops  of  iron  stalks,  enticing 
idle  women  to  try  them  on  before  tall  pier  glasses, 
and  homeless  men  to  dawdle  outside  the  window. 
What  inscrutable  attraction  draws  ragged  loafers  to 
showcases  of  cambric  underwear  and  flowery  toques  ? 
Yet  Elk  Mountain  did  have  its  semi-annual  display 
of  hats.  Miss  Susan  Adick  had  abandoned  school- 
teaching  for  the  more  remunerative  task  of  milli- 
nery, and  twice  a  year  visited  the  shops  of  TJtica,  and 
afterwards  made  a  circuit  of  the  mountain  villages, 
spending  a  week  in  each  place  and  displaying  her 
limited  stock  in  the  parlor  of  some  favored  friend 
or  competing  housewife.  In  Elk  Mountain  village 
the  postmistress  was  the  envied  temporary  owner  of 
this  delectable  display. 

"  Mussy  on  me,"  Eli's  wife  moaned,  "  if  thet 
gal  dozen't  hit  off  old  Miz  Swinger  to  a  T ! 
She  sets  and  primps  jest  like  a  pigeon  in  the 
sun.  '  Naow,  don't  you  think  daisies  and  rose- 
buds would  be  a  mite  more  youthful  ?'  she  says, 
says  she.  I  hear  her  with  my  own  ears,  Carry  New- 
come."  Mrs.  Eli  heaved  into  one  vast  eruption  of 
mirth. 

Enoch  took  Sararose's  hand  to  lead  her  to  the 
piano.  He  was  very  proud  of  his  little  sister's 
voice.  In  the  dark-red  gown  that  Alison  had  helped 
her  buy  she  was  a  picture  that  his  eyes  loved  to 
rest  upon.  He  did  not  know  what  a  startling  contra- 
diction she  was  to  the  canons  of  art  that  were  as  the 

213 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  to  the  good  moun- 
taineers. 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  a  red-haired  woman  wearing 
a  red  meriny  ?"  muttered  Mrs.  Lawless  to  her  neigh- 
bor. "  You'd  think  Sararose  Holme  had  gone  clean 
crazy." 

"  I  declare  to  't,  it  dozen't  look  so  bad,"  whisper- 
ed Zuba  Hartle,  always  inclined  to  free  thinking. 
"  I've  seed  sumac  berries  put  into  a  jug  with  them 
reddish-brown  hickory  leaves,  and  they  looked  fine." 

Zuba,  with  unconscious  felicity,  expressed  the 
color  scheme  between  Sararose's  glowing  copper  head 
and  the  ruby  tint  of  her  dress. 

"  We're  all  here  but  grandfather,"  said  Enoch, 
looking  about  the  room.  "  Where  is  he  ?  Not  sick, 
Carry?" 

"  In  the  woodshed,  nussing  his  cold  fingers,"  she 
replied,  bluntly,  at  which  there  was  a  general  laugh. 

"  We  must  bring  him  in  here  to  enjoy  the  even- 
ing with  us.  He  will  surely  come,"  replied  Enoch, 
confidently. 

"  Go  and  ask  him,"  said  Carry,  at  which  there 
was  another  round  of  appreciative  merriment. 

"  Let  me  go,  too,"  said  Sararose,  the  tender-heart- 
ed. "  I  will  beg  him.  Won't  you  come  with  me  ?" 
She  bent  low  to  Alison  and  touched  her  hand. 

Sararose  had  conceived  a  romantic  attachment, 
the  first  of  her  lonely  life,  for  Alison  MacDonald. 
The  delegation  to  the  woodshed  summoned  all  their 
art  to  soften  the  old  man's  stony  pride. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  half  like  old  times  without  you 
in  the  arm-chair,  such  a  comfortable  arm-chair,"  in- 
sinuated Enoch. 

Old  Si  changed  his  position  on  the  hard  bench. 
214 


The   Social  at    Si's 

"  Such  good  hot  cakes  and  maple  sugar." 

Old  Si  swallowed  uncomfortably. 

"  And  Gene  Lawless  telling  deer  stories  that  ain't 
a  candle  to  yours." 

Old  Si  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  and  then  closed 
it  again  resolutely.  The  two  girls,  standing  arm  in 
arm,  next  opened  fire. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Newcome,"  said  Sararose. 

"  Ef  you  two  girls  ain't  a  pikcher-card  together !" 
exclaimed  old  Si,  momentarily  mollified  by  their 
twin  beauty.  u  Where'd  you  git  your  black  hair, 
Missy?" 

Alison  laughed.    "  They  call  me  a  gypsy." 

"  She  be  dark,  but  good-lookin',  ain't  she  ?"  ap- 
pealed old  Si,  turning  to  Enoch. 

Enoch,  who,  up  to  that  time,  had  fooled  himself 
into  the  belief,  because  his  heart  was  silent,  that  it 
was  under  control,  felt  something  pull  apart,  and 
the  old  passionate  plaint  began  again.  He  moved 
a  step  away  from  her. 

"  I  have  heard  so  much  of  your  famous  guiding 
days,"  Alison  insisted.  "  Do  come  and  talk  with 
us  a  little." 

Old  Si's  vanity  yielded  to  feminine  persuasion, 
and,  with  a  girl  on  either  arm,  he  was  led  captive 
into  the  best  room. 

"  But  I  ain't  agreein'  to  *t,"  he  said,  obstinately, 
as  he  met  his  daughter-in-law's  glance  of  triumph 
when  he  had  crossed  the  Rubicon, 


CHAPTER  XIX 
Music    and    Games 

SARABOSE'S  lovely  voice  trilled  forth  in  a  couple 
of  old  songs.  Alison  accompanied  her  on  the  quaver- 
ing piano. 

"  Really  exquisite,"  said  Colonel  Hollister,  who 
was  somewhat  of  a  musical  connoisseur.  "  Her  tones 
are  pure,  and,  what  is  rarer,  she  has  accuracy  of  ear 
and  an  instinct  for  phrasing;  don't  you  think  so,  mv 
dear?" 

Mrs.  Hollister  beamed  approval. 

"  Volume  and  resonance  would  undoubtedly  come 
with  cultivation.  Charming,  my  dear.  Another!" 

"  Yes,  another,"  echoed  Mrs.  Hollister. 

Sararose  sang  again,  while  Richard  turned  the 
leaves.  "  Capital,"  he  murmured  to  her  between 
stanzas. 

"  Enoch,  I  must  talk  to  you  about  your  sister," 
said  Colonel  Hollister,  when  the  episode  of  music 
was  over. 

"  Talkin'  about  Moose  Pond,"  said  old  Si  to  Mrs. 
Hollister,  "  and  how  it  came  to  git  thet  name,  I  kin 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

He  went  on  with  the  tale  of  the  moose-calf  he 
had  found  and  tamed  in  his  boyhood. 

"  Folks  say  as  there  wasn't  never  no  moose  in 
216 


Music    and    Games 

these  parts,  but  thet's  a  lie,  for  I  cot  one  myself. 
Talk  about  killing  deer  " — he  gained  a  word  or  two 
from  the  discussion  between  Colonel  Hollister  and 
Enoch  Holme — "  it's  a  burning  shame.  A  man  ought 
to  be  strung  up  that  'ud  touch  a  mother  doe.  I'd 
as  soon  kill  a  wumman,  by  gol,  I  would !" 

Old  Si  Newcome,  hard  and  implacable  towards 
his  own  kind,  with  animals  was  soft-hearted  to  an  un- 
usual extent. 

Meanwhile  Alison  was  organizing  a  set  for  dumb 
crambo. 

The  players,  numbering  five,  assembled  in  the 
kitchen  for  consultation  and  rehearsal. 

"Eh,  I  don't  ketch  on,"  said  Eli,  after  the 
hunt  for  the  word  had  commenced.  "  We  be 
goin'  to  act  out  quack?  You  needn't  tell  me 
I  be  goin'  to  make  no  darned  fool  of  myself, 
squawlin'  like  a  duck,  with  my  wife  settin'  by  to  en- 
joy  it !" 

a  You  be  the  old  hayseed,  Eli,"  said  Zuba.  "  You 
won't  need  to  do  any  actin'." 

"  The  rug  is  the  duck-pond,  remember,"  admon- 
ished Alison.  "  We  three  are  the  ducklings  sailing 
off,  Zuba  is  the  astonished  hen-mother,  and  Mr. 
Barhite  the  farmer." 

"  Cluck,  cluck,"  interrupted  the  delighted  Zuba. 
"  Naow,  Eli,  don't  f orgit  to  shake  your  pan  at  me, 
and  scatter  the  corn !" 

"  Go  'long !  If  I  don't  know  haow  to  feed  chick- 
ens, I  cayn't  1'arn  from  you !" 

"  Will  you  announce  us,  Mr.  Barhite  ?"  Alison 
was  modestly  keeping  herself  in  the  background,  and 
assigning  the  choice  parts  to  others. 

Eli  Barhite,  bashfully  beaming  with  this  sudden 
217 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

prominence,  pushed  open  the  parlor  door  and  bowed 
to  the  assembled  company. 

"  Our  word  rhymes  with  quack"  he  began,  pom- 
pously. 

"  You  ninny !"  came  from  behind  in  Zuba's  sibil- 
lant  whisper.  "  Don't  give  us  away !" 

"  Rhymes  with  track"  supplied  Alison. 

"  With  fat"  Eli  corrected  himself  loudly.  "  Our 
word  rhymes  with  fat." 

The  announcement  was  greeted  with  discerning 
laughter  from  all  except  Si  2^ewcome,  the  son,  who 
looked  blankly  around,  and  asked  his  neighbor  an- 
grily what  they  was  all  cackling  about.  He  didn't 
see  no  joke. 

"  Don't  you  see,  he's  give  away  the  game  ?" 

"  Go  'long  with  you !"  shouted  Mrs.  Eli  to  her 
shame-faced  husband.  "  You're  easy,  you  are !" 

"  Let's  hev  their  piece,  anyway,"  begged  Si,  un- 
easily, who  did  not  yet  quite  understand  the  hilarity. 
He  had  a  constitutional  disability  for  games,  and  an 
immunity  from  getting  the  point  that  was  marvel- 
lous. The  players,  who  had  elaborately  performed 
in  the  kitchen  under  Alison's  direction,  and  were 
in  the  first  flush  of  histrionic  ardor,  were  only  too 
glad  to  comply  with  this  request. 

Enoch  was  head  of  the  fleet  of  ducks.  The  in- 
tense gravity  of  his  waddling  and  flapping  scored 
the  first  hit. 

When  Zuba  fluttered  and  cackled  after  them,  and 
was  finally  consoled  with  imaginary  corn,  scattered 
by  Eli's  liberal  hand,  the  motive  of  the  game 
dawned  splendidly  upon  Si's  dormant  senses.  He 
understood  and  signalized  his  burst  of  clarified  in- 
telligence by  a  tremendous  slap  of  Eddie's  knees. 

218 


Music   and    Games 

"  I'll  be  blowed,  man !"  he  roared,  "  if  they  be'nt 
actin'  out  a  string  of  them  confounded  ducks — 
quack !  quack !  Oh,  the  Lord  Harry !"  His  clair- 
voyance almost  stunned  him. 

"  Wasn't  that  what  Eli  telled  us  in  the  first  place  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Si,  scornfully. 

"  Quack !  quack !  Oh,  the  Lord  Harry !"  gloated 
Si,  dead  to  reproof  and  oblivious  to  scorn. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  likes  of  him  ?"  remarked 
Mrs.  Si,  with  wifely  contempt.  "  He  wouldn't  see 
the  sun  if  it  was  ace  of  hearts  in  his  hands." 

"  Enoch !  Enoch !"  clapped  the  young  people,  as 
the  players  retired  to  the  green-room. 

"  That's  an  encore  for  you,"  said  Alison.  "  You 
were  certainly  the  star." 

"  By  virtue  of  sheer  ridiculousness." 

"  But  they  want  you  again." 

Enoch  repeated  his  pantomime,  to  the  immense 
delight  of  the  audience.  There  are  few  things 
so  deliciously  funny  as  Olympic  gravity  and  height 
converted  to  the  ends  of  buffoonery.  Eli  Bar- 
hite  was  not  allowed  to  be  prologue  next  time, 
though  he  asserted  a  thorough  understanding  of  his 
duties. 

They  had  settled  on  the  word  pine.  Alison  was 
quiet  while  they  rummaged  for  the  appropriate  jingle 
to  give  their  audience  a  clew.  They  had  been  pre- 
viously instructed  as  to  the  nature  of  rhyme,  but  still 
suggested  such  combinations  as  miss  and  dip,  reap 
and  sweet,  and  assonances  remoter  yet,  as  proper  ful- 
filment of  the  laws  of  rhyme. 

The  hunt  for  a  rhyme  to  pine  presented  difficul- 
ties that  were  struggled  with  in  silence,  while  a 
dozen  rhymes  chattered  at  Alison's  ear. 

219 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  Line,"  suggested  Zuba,  looking  doubtfully  tow- 
ards Alison.  "  Good !  Will  you  announce  ?" 

Enoch  was  protagonist  in  this  episode,  acting  out 
a  wood-chopper  attacking  a  pine.  It  was  melodrama 
rather  than  burlesque,  and  commanded  the  closest 
attention. 

He  selected  his  tree,  measuring  its  girth,  and 
indicating  its  height  by  an  upward  glance,  so 
that  the  forest  and  a  great  tree  at  once  sprang 
to  view  for  every  one  but  Si,  who  was  angrier 
than  before  at  the  others  for  their  superior  percep- 
tion. 

"  It's  tree/' 

"  It's  wood-chopper/' 

"  Hush !  they  don't  hitch  up  with  line."  Now 
Enoch  made  the  undercut,  and  then  he  bent  his 
stalwart  frame  to  the  axe. 

"  He'd  better  take  a  saw  to  it,"  muttered  old  Si. 
"  Them  big  spruce  is  like  iron." 

Enoch,  amid  laughs  from  the  audience,  dropped 
his  imagined  axe,  and  followed  old  Si's  advice.  One 
could  almost  hear  the  saw  grating  and  creaking 
through  the  resistant  wood  as  Enoch's  strong  arm 
moved  back  and  forth,  and  the  veins  on  his  temples 
bulged. 

"  She's  stuck  in  the  sap,"  muttered  old  Si,  sympa- 
thetically, as  Enoch  drew  his  breath  and  wiped  his 
forehead.  "  You  might  as  well  try  to  cut  molasses 
as  to  fetch  her  through." 

Enoch  sprang  backward  to  watch,  as  the  great 
tree  toppled  and  fell. 

"  Git  out  of  the  road !"  shrieked  witty  Eddie,  and 
Sararose,  in  a  line  with  the  tree's  direction,  jumped 
like  one  shot. 

220 


Music    and    Games 

There  was  applause,  and  the  second  dumb-show 
was  over,  but  the  word  was  not  guessed. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ?"  said  Sararose  to 
Richard. 

"  I  can  guess,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

"  Don't  let  us  tell  the  others." 

"  Never !" 

"  What  are  you  two  rogues  plotting  ?"  asked  Colo- 
nel Hollister,  peering  over  kindly  spectacles. 

Loiseau  followed  the  kindly  glance  with  one  of 
jealous  suspicion. 

The  second  pantomime  interpreted  the  word  as  a 
verb.  Alison  had  arranged  an  affecting  tableau,  with 
Zuba  as  a  young  widow  pining  over  her  lost  love, 
reading  his  old  letters,  and  weeping  into  a  handker- 
chief. But  at  the  last  moment,  practising  the  tears 
before  a  cracked  mirror  in  the  kitchen,  Zuba  collapsed 
into  giggles,  and  declared  that  she  was  too  "  pump- 
kin-faced "  for  the  role.  Eli,  grown  courageous 
through  dramatic  triumphs  and  continued  absence 
from  his  wife,  heartily  abetted  her  in  this  decision, 
and  received  a  box  on  the  ear  for  his  pains. 

During  all  the  evening  there  had  been  the  slight- 
est undercurrent  possible,  but  nevertheless  an  under- 
current, of  mute  interchange  between  Enoch  and  Ali- 
son. For  two  people  who  are  in  sympathy  will  con- 
verse across  a  roomful  of  people,  and  talk  between 
the  lines  of  spoken  colloquy.  Enoch,  strongly  con- 
trolling his  passion  for  Alison,  was  rendered  calm 
by  her  presence  and  the  urgent  necessity  for  self- 
control.  His  manner  betrayed  nothing  of  the  in- 
ward agitation,  the  haze  of  delight  in  which  he  moved 
only  bringing  to  his  eyes  and  voice  a  certain  remote- 
ness as  he  addressed  Alison.  The  vague  elation  that 

221 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

one  person  feels  reaches  another  in  a  still  vaguer 
form,  a  spiritual  odor  or  the  steam  of  an  invisible 
brew.  A  comrade  will  not  always  understand  the 
source  of  this  transmitted  emotion,  and  will  fancy 
it  an  unexplained  mood  of  one's  own. 

Alison,  touched  by  this  secret  atmosphere,  would 
like  to  have  risked  a  renewal  of  intimacy  with  the 
man  who  had  so  passionately  loved  and  renounced 
her.  The  remoteness  of  his  manner  piqued  her  curi- 
osity. She  was  woman  enough  for  that.  What  wom- 
an is  there  without  the  potentiality,  at  least,  of  a 
coquette?  One  does  not  wish  the  man  for  whom 
one  is  sorry  to  bear  his  loss  too  easily,  or  forget  too 
soon.  Man's  renunciation  is  woman's  mortification. 

Since  the  afternoon  under  the  golden  beech-tree, 
Alison  had  seen  Enoch  but  twice,  once  at  his  house 
and  once  at  church. 

"  We  have  not  seen  much  of  you  lately,  Mr. 
Holme." 

(Between  the  lines  read :  "  I  have  missed  you.") 

"  I  have  been  cutting  timber  up  on  the  moun- 
tain." ("  My  daily  work  absorbs  me.") 

"  By  Lost  Inn  ?"  ("  You  see  I  remember  our  af- 
ternoon there.") 

"  Yes,  and  have  hardly  been  home  but  for  Sun- 
days." (Enoch  fences,  parries.) 

"Lost  Inn  is  beautiful."     (She  pursues  him.) 

"  I  shall  not  forget  that  storm  and  the  circle  about 
the  roaring  fire."  ("  It  is  you  that  have  made  it 
memorable.") 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Mayhew  ?  He  interested  me 
greatly."  ("  You  see  I  am  thinking  of  another.") 

"  He  is  busy  with  his  East  Side — but  there,  Zuba 
is  readv.  Let  us  do  our  turn." 

222 


Music    and    Games 

(The  foils  are  dropped,  Enoch  has  covered  him- 
self successfully,  Alison  has  not  made  her  points.) 

"  And  am  I  to  do  the  pining  ?"  asked  Enoch. 

"  It  will  be  beautiful.  After  your  scene  as  the 
wood-chopper,  we  have  perfect  confidence." 

"  I  may  think  of  you  as  the  loved  and  lost  ?"  he 
smiled.  ("I  can  play  with  fire  now  and  go  un- 
scorched.") 

How  intricate  is  human  speech  that  two  can  thus 
talk  intimately  and  be  unheard! 

"  He  is  cured,"  thought  Alison,  with  the  slight 
pang  of  wounded  vanity.  She  was  truly  a  woman, 
and  therefore  had  a  tinge  of  vanity.  She  was  earnest, 
and  therefore  despised  herself  for  it. 

The  scene  went  on,  Alison  discovered ;  enter  Enoch, 
kneels,  reaches  for  her  hand;  Alison  rises,  shakes 
her  head,  refuses  her  hand.  Exit  Alison. 

Enoch  gloomy,  elbows  on  knees,  head  in  hands. 
Enter  Eli,  as  postman.  Enoch  reaches  eagerly  for 
letters.  Eli  assorts  his  handful,  shakes  his  head, 
passes;  demonstration  of  grief  from  Enoch,  and  re- 
newed melancholy.  Enter  Zuba,  with  tray;  food  of- 
fered and  refused.  Exit  Zuba.  Enoch  pulls  out  old 
love-letters,  reads,  kisses,  ponders,  throws  them  on  the 
floor;  final  tableau,  head  sunk  on  table  in  dejection. 

Objective  result,  utter  bewilderment  of  the  Elk 
Mountain  social.  "  It  is  the  same  word  as  before," 
explained  Alison,  "but  in  a  different  sense." 

"  'Pears  to  me  like  moon-calf,"  gurgled  Mrs.  Bar- 
hite. 

"  You  will  have  to  act  it,"  said  Enoch  to  Ali- 
son, as  they  went  out.  "  I  did  not  do  it  well." 

"  You  were  not  properly  grief -stricken,"  said  Ali- 
Bon,  reproachfully. 

223 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  You  can  chop  a  tree,  but  you  can't  do  the  lone- 
some for  a  cent,"  remarked  Eli  Barhite. 

"  It  requires  more  experience,  I  suppose,"  Enoch 
replied,  toying  rather  painfully  with  words  that 
meant  much  to  him.  "  A  woman  can  always  pre- 
tend. £Tow  it  is  your  turn,  Miss  MacDonald." 

He  adjusted  a  mournful  black  shawl  about  Ali- 
son's head.  She  pinned  it  here  and  there  to  make 
the  lines  more  becoming. 

"  There  is  no  man  in  this,"  she  said ;  "  the  man 
has  already  become  a  memory." 

She  could  not  help  a  quick  unveiling  of  her  eyes 
to  him  as  she  spoke. 

Alison's  impersonation  proved  clarifying.  A  photo- 
graph from  the  piano  was  a  valuable  property.  Over 
this  she  pored,  and  her  pale  face,  between  the  black 
folds,  indicated,  even  for  Elk  Mountain's  unsenti- 
mental apprehension,  lonely  grief. 

"  She  do  look  sweet  and  sad,"  murmured  Xance. 

"  She's  takin'  on  drefful,"  said  Grandma  Si,  fur- 
tively wiping  a  tear. 

"Say,  by  gol!"  chuckled  Eddie  to  Si,  "it  be 
your  pikcher  she's  takin'  on  so  abaout." 

"  Peaky  and  piny,  poor  thing !"  said  Mrs.  Bar- 
hite, aloud,  in  hearty  condolence. 

"  Pine !"  came  a  burst  of  divination  from  the 
superior  intelligence  of  the  crowd. 

Then  the  players'  part  passed  to  another  more 
vociferous  group.  Alison,  Enoch,  and  their  support 
mingled  with  the  audience. 

A  little  bit  of  insincere  intercourse  between  peo- 
ple who  feel  deeply  leaves  a  bitter  taste  in  the  mouth. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  dissatisfaction  that  made  Enoch 
eager  for  a  renewed  talk  with  Colonel  Hollister  about 

224 


Music   and    Games 

his  sister's  future.  Colonel  Hollister  was  one  of 
the  few  men  whose  advice  Enoch  sought. 

"  There  are  only  two  things,"  said  Enoch,  "  that 
would  make  me  hesitate  to  adopt  your  suggestion 
as  to  sending  Sararose  to  New  York.  One  the  ex- 
pense, the  other  her  development  under  those  con- 
ditions." 

"  Which  is  the  more  deterrent  ?" 

"  The  expense  can  be  met,"  said  Enoch.  He  would 
not  let  Colonel  Hollister  know  of  the  privations  he 
would  gladly  endure  for  Sararose's  sake. 

Colonel  Hollister  knew  the  temper  of  his  man 
well  enough  to  abstain  from  offering  financial  aid. 
Music  was  his  hobby,  and  for  the  sake  of  a  musical 
protegee  he  would  think  nothing  of  a  thousand  or  five 
thousand  dollars,  which  he  would  call  a  loan  or  not, 
as  befitted  the  persons  with  whom  he  dealt.  But 
the  Holmes  were  a  singularly  manly  breed,  and  the 
relations  between  the  Holmes  and  the  Hollisters,  per- 
sistent now  for  more  than  a  generation,  were  of 
the  self-respecting  kind  that  neither  seeks  nor  offers 
patronage. 

"  Sararose  has  a  remarkable  voice,  I  assure  you," 
said  Colonel  Hollister. 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure." 

"  It  will  give  the  world  pleasure  if  it  is  trained." 

Enoch  glowed  with  reflected  pride.  The  glory  of 
distinction,  of  pre-eminence,  was  his  ambition,  and 
his  ambition  was  such  that  it  hurt  him  for  any  one 
of  his  kin  to  be  satisfied  with  mediocrity. 

"  The  expense  can  be  met,  for  if  I  am  foreman 
in  the  woods  next  winter — 

"  You  shall  be.     That  is  understood." 

Enoch  grasped  Hollister's  hand.  "  Still,  I  can- 
p  225 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

not    quite    make    up    my    mind    to    let    Sararose 

go." 

'  Your  father  will  miss  her  ?" 

"  Daddy  will  live  with  John ;  I  shall  be  in  the 
camp  all  winter,  but — " 

"  What,  then  ?  The  way  seems  clear.  You  are 
not  afraid  she  lacks  in  talent?" 

"  Frankly — I  am  afraid — for  her." 

Colonel  Hollister  was  incapable  of  understand- 
ing Enoch's  doubt  of  Sararose.  He  believed  in  his 
wife  and  children  as  he  did  in  himself. 

"  Mrs.  Hollister  and  Miss  MacDonald  have  taken 
the  greatest  interest  in  your  sister.  They  will  do 
all  in  their  power  to  look  out  for  her  and  keep  her 
from  loneliness." 

That  night  Enoch  and  Sararose  were  up  till  very 
late  in  the  little  white  house  on  the  Saranac  road. 
The  girl  sat  on  the  floor  by  her  brother's  side,  and, 
with  her  head  on  his  knees,  listened  to  his  hopes  and 
fears  for  her.  His  hopes  for  her  that  her  woman- 
hood would  be  lofty  and  noble,  her  sincerity,  her 
courage,  her  faith  in  God  unblemished,  and  that 
the  winter's  work  would  be  but  the  beginning  of  a 
serious  career,  that  her  voice  might  be  dedicated  to 
God's  service — all  these  hopes  were  responded  to 
by  her  with  buoyant  enthusiasm.  When  one  is  on 
the  threshold  of  a  great  happiness  how  easy  it  is  to 
respond  to  another's  wishes.  His  fears  for  her  he 
but  half  expressed,  for  she,  perhaps,  was  ignorant  of 
her  own  weakness.  Sararose  made  soulful  promises 
to  satisfy  his  demands.  It  is  easy  anticipatorily  to 
forego,  for  the  sake  of  a  present  acquisition.  It  re- 
quires little  pain  to  deny  one's  self  butter  to-morrow 
for  the  sake  of  jam  to-day. 

226 


Music    and    Games 

"  There  will  be  many  dangers  for  you,  Sararose," 
said  Enoch ;  "  alone,  a  young  girl,  and  innocent  as 
you  are." 

"  Pooh !"  laughed  Sararose,  compassionately.  "  I 
am  not  so  innocent  as  you  think.  I  know  enough  to 
cross  a  street  and  to  ask  policemen." 

In  her  inmost  heart  the  thought  of  encountering 
dangers,  with  only  herself  to  look  to,  and  a  beneficent 
brother  away  in  the  mountains,  his  overlordship  lim- 
ited to  pen-and-ink  advice,  was  delicious.  Danger 
to  one  who  has  never  encountered  it,  who  is  young 
and  has  lived  in  constraint,  is  a  word  full  of  the 
rosiest  color,  and  intoxicates  like  a  magic  spell.  It 
would  be  hard  to  define  the  youthful  idea  of  an  un- 
known experience.  How  it  comes,  like  a  person  step- 
ping by,  the  face  and  the  carriage,  the  shape  and  the 
garments  worn,  the  voice  and  the  eyes — how  impos- 
sible, how  contradictory,  how  indefinite,  how  bewil- 
dering! One  who  has  both  anticipated  in  delirium 
and  experienced  in  joy,  would  not  part  with  this 
vague  mirage  of  ignorance  for  all  the  clear-cut  pict- 
ures of  experience. 

"  It  is  not  the  material  dangers  that  I  fear,  but 
others  which  will  come  upon  you  suddenly,  for  which 
you  are  not  prepared.  You  do  not  understand  me; 
you  are  too  innocent  to  understand.  Never  mind." 

The  innocent  little  head  that  Enoch  looked  down 
upon  was  full  of  wicked  consciousness  that  she  knew 
perfectly  well  the  dangers  her  brother  feared,  and 
that  she — well,  she  might  not  consider  them  dangers 
at  all.  Many  a  demure  silence  is  full,  within,  of 
temptation  to  spicy  speech.  How  near  the  two  heads 
were,  and  how  unaware  each  of  the  other's  thought. 
Sararose  reflected,  mischievously,  what  a  mercy  it 

22Y 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

was  that  her  thoughts  were  her  own.  Enoch  reflected 
upon  the  transparent  simplicity  of  her  face. 

"  In  the  course  of  your  study  you  may  occasionally 
have  opportunity  to  go  to  the  theatre  or  opera,  but 
I  do  not  wish  you  to  accept.  People  will  argue  that 
the  opera  will  be  an  inspiration  and  guidance  to  you 
in  your  work." 

"  Yes,  Enoch,  to  hear  the  great  singers  would  be 
inspiring." 

"  But  there  would  be,  along  with  it,  so  much  spuri- 
ous art  and  pretence,  mere  excitation  of  the  sense  by 
gaudy  sights  and  trumped-up  situations,  that  the  good 
is  more  than  neutralized  by  the  harm." 

"  Ah,  Enoch,  it  wouldn't  harm  me." 

"  You,  of  all  persons,  it  would  harm,  for  you  are 
finely  strung  and  susceptible.  Besides  this,  there  is 
the  moral  life  of  the  opera  singers  to  consider.  They 
find  the  temptations  of  the  stage  wellnigh  impossible 
to  resist.  Oh,  Sararose,  no  one  of  mine,  if  I  can 
prevent  it,  shall  ever  countenance  such  evil-doing." 

"  No  one  of  mine !"  How  Sararose  hated  the 
phrase.  What  a  weapon  it  had  been,  extending 
the  sphere  of  Enoch's  responsibility  to  such  unpleas- 
ant largeness ! 

"  You  might  even  be  tempted  to  consider  opera 
singing  yourself,  and,  my  dear  little  sister,  I  had 
rather  see  you  in  your  grave  here  at  my  feet  than 
prima  donna  behind  the  footlights." 

Sararose's  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  that  she 
was  not  in  her  grave  at  his  feet.  Distracting  visions 
fluttered  before  her  of  a  prima  donna  in  a  diamond 
tiara,  with  a  row  of  little  gas-jets  in  front  and  a 
bank  of  American  beauty  roses  behind  her.  She 
wondered  if  the  tiara  would  be  becoming,  and  whether 

228 


Music    and   Games 

or  not  there  would  be  cards  with  the  roses.  She  had 
just  decided  to  make  her  last  bow,  with  one  long- 
stemmed  rose  held  against  the  white  of  her  dra- 
peries, when  she  heard  Enoch's  question : 

"  Will  you  promise  me,  dear,  that  you  will  never 
go  to  the  theatre  or  opera  ?" 

Never  is  such  a  frightful  word.  It  struck  a  chill 
to  Sararose's  heart. 

"  Never  ?"  she  trembled,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the 
intense  blue  bent  above  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  say  never.  Not  for  a 
year;  we  will  begin  with  that." 

It  was  hard  for  Sararose  to  stand  the  intense  blue 
of  those  eyes,  but  their  very  intensity  made  her  feel 
that  this  winter  in  New  York  was  to  be  a  fact.  It 
was  well  worth  the  price  of  a  promise,  even  of  a  brok- 
en promise.  Oh,  Sararose !  How  can  you  be  so  frail, 
with  such  strength  of  will  and  purpose  yearning 
above  you? 

She  would  read  her  Bible  every  morning,  pray 
every  night,  attend  church  regularly,  wear  her  stout 
shoes  and  her  thickest  underclothing,  things  she  par- 
ticularly detested,  go  to  bed  early,  practise  faithfully, 
and  write  to  Enoch  every  day.  Her  eyes  were  an- 
gelic as  she  kissed  Enoch  good-night. 

She  slipped  between  the  cold  sheets,  with  the  one 
thought,  liberty,  tingling  like  elixir  through  her 
veins. 


CHAPTER   XX 
The  Gown 

ALISON'S  wedding  was  to  be  late  in  October,  with 
only  a  quiet  family  party  present. 

"  I  do  not  want  it  to  be  a  satin  marriage,"  she 
said,  "  the  usher  -  and  -  bridesmaid  kind,  but  just  a 
simple  ceremony,  in  the  woods  under  the  scarlet 
shadow  of  the  maples." 

"  Scarlet  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hollister,  horrified. 
"  Alison,  my  dear !  What  will  you  wear  ?" 

Alison  had  made  the  wedding  dress  herself,  and 
no  one  had  seen  it. 

"  If  it  were  August,  I  would  wear  clematis.  That 
is  white  for  you,  dearie.  And  I  love  clematis.  It 
is  the  very  spirit  of  the  fields,  virgin  but  wild,  shy 
but  wayward.  And  how  it  is  the  embodiment  of 
motion !" 

"  You  dear  little  raver !"  said  Ysobel,  affection- 
ately, kissing  Alison's  fluttering  fingers  into  quiet. 
And  then  she  whispered :  "  But  please  wear  some 
fig-leaves,  besides.  I  will  sew  them  for  you." 

"  Hush !  The  fig-leaves  are  sewed.  I  want  you 
all  to  see  them.  Come." 

They  went  together  to  Alison's  room,  Ysobel, 
June,  and  the  three  Mrs.  Hollisters — Mrs.  John,  Mrs. 
Edward,  and  Mrs.  Edward,  Junior.  Mrs.  John, 

230 


The  Gown 

stout,  florid,  generous,  a  committee  woman  by  nat- 
ure and  charitable  by  predilection,  was  the  exact 
opposite  of  Mrs.  Edward,  hollow  -  eyed,  slender, 
brusque,  with  a  temperamental  fondness  for  litera- 
ture and  Bohemians.  Each  considered  the  other 
peculiar,  given  over  to  fads,  and  each  deprecated  the 
other's  influence  over  young  people.  No  common 
friendship  was  possible  between  them  without  some 
heart-burning  and  confidential  advices  to  the  third 
party  concerning  the  evil  ways  of  the  antipode. 
Long  friction  between  them  had  rubbed  off  the  outer 
edges  of  discomfort,  so  that  to  an  amused  and  sym- 
pathetic family  circle  their  disagreement  was  only 
a  subject  of  delicate  repartee.  Both  being  very  fond 
of  Alison,  all  of  her  tact  and  sincerity  was  required 
to  hold  the  situation  without  compromise  to  either 
one  of  her  friendship  for  the  other.  Tact  without 
sincerity  is  only  a  temporary  expedient,  and 
smoothes  over  the  difficulties  that  arise  but  once. 
This  sort  of  tact  many  women  possess,  and  it  makes 
for  them  enemies  as  well  as  friends.  The  other  kind 
of  tact  is  a  life-long  resource  and  power. 

Mrs.  John  liked  colored  cooks  and  stately  din- 
ners; Mrs.  Edward,  a  Japanese  chef  and  petit 
soupers.  Mrs.  John  patronized  hospital  bazaars  and 
educational  alliances;  Mrs.  Edward,  art  leagues  and 
Bohemian  seances.  Mrs.  Edward  abhorred  the  satin 
and  diamonds  that  were  the  glory  of  her  sister-in- 
law;  Mrs.  John  sniffed  at  the  Liberty  fabrics  and 
the  "  Egyptian  beads  "  that  Mrs.  Edward  languid- 
ly affected.  Mrs.  John  had  a  hearty  and  expansive 
laugh ;  Mrs.  Edward,  a  long,  insinuating  smile. 
Mrs.  John  gave  you  buxom  embraces;  Mrs.  Edward 
held  your  wrist  symbolically. 

231 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

Edward  Hollister,  Junior,  differentiated  the  two 
by  calling  the  one  abstract  and  the  other  concrete. 

"  Mamma  is  a  figure  of  speech,  auntie  a  figure  of 
—flesh." 

"  Too,  too  solid !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ned,  who  could 
be  depended  upon  to  finish  with  irreverence. 

"  I  never  knew  a  bride  so  little  absorbed  in  her 
trousseau,"  said  Mrs.  John,  half  reproachfully,  as 
they  entered  Alison's  room. 

"  It's  delightful  of  you,  Alison,"  said  Mrs.  Ed- 
ward, quickly,  and  June  smiled  at  Mrs.  Ned.  A 
reproach  from  one  of  the  elder  ladies  met  an  instant 
response  of  approval  from  the  other  one,  except  at 
those  critical  times  when  one  unfortunately  pre- 
empted the  other's  territory  of  natural  domain,  leav- 
ing the  dispossessed  one  in  a  dilemma. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  of  the  wed- 
ding-gown," said  Alison,  "  but  all  the  rest  of  the 
clothes  seemed  too  trivial." 

"  Trivial !"  exclaimed  June ;  "  a  trousseau  trivial ! 
I  think  clothes  are  the  solemnest  things  in  the  world. 
I  never  feel  so  deeply  religious  as  when  I'm  stand- 
ing before  the  dressmaker.  It's  a  rite." 

"  A  sacrificial  one,"  said  Mrs.  Ned,  fingering  the 
ends  of  her  lace  fichu. 

"  More  honored  in  the  breach  than  in  the  ob- 
servance, in  my  case,"  remarked  Alison.  "  Now  sit 
down,  all  of  you,  please.  Ysobel,  those  balsam  pil- 
lows on  the  floor  are  for  you." 

Ysobel,  strangely  quiet,  nestled  on  the  heap  of 
pillows  below  Alison's  dressing-table. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Ysobel  ?"  asked  June,  her 
feet  dangling  from  the  high  window  bench.  June's 
voice  had  a  peculiar,  penetrating  quality,  which  her 

232 


The   Gown 

personality  had  not.  She  was  not  heartless,  but 
soulless.  The  vital  things  of  life  slid  from  her  like 
mercury  from  your  fingers.  There  seemed  nothing 
in  her  to  apprehend  soul  feelings,  no  spiritual  ten- 
tacles which  caught  at  the  floating  motes  in  the  at- 
mosphere. She  presented  a  hard,  bland  surface  to 
the  world  of  feeling.  Not  her  mind,  but  her  soul, 
looked  intelligence. 

Ysobel  glanced  up  at  her  with  one  of  her  un- 
usual looks,  the  frightened  transparency  of  a  child. 
This  look  came  into  her  eyes  at  times,  if  her  silence 
or  preoccupation  was  suddenly  broken  in  upon,  the 
look  of  an  imaginative  child  who  sees  spectres  at 
twilight  and  is  ashamed  to  trust  the  grown-ups  with 
his  fears. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Ysobel,  curtly.  "  Leave 
me  alone,  June-bug !" 

"  June-bug  "  was  Ysobel's  epithet  for  Miss  Hoi- 
lister,  and  heartily  condemned  by  that  young  per- 
son as  foolish  and  inappropriate.  Alison  thought 
she  understood  its  appropriateness.  Closely  as  she 
and  June  had  been  thrown  together,  interwoven  as 
their  lives  and  experience  had  been,  yet  there  was 
more  kinship  between  Alison  and  the  reckless,  cyn- 
ical, free  -  thinking  Ysobel  than  between  the  two 
blameless  and  enthusiastic  young  girls. 

Certain  it  is  that  there  was  a  translucent  some- 
thing in  Ysobel  Ruddle's  eyes  and  laugh  that  many 
acts  of  her  life  belied,  and  even  in  after-years  when 
she  had  crossed  the  boundary  there  was  a  crystal 
understanding  between  her  and  certain  pure  souls 
that  the  censors  of  morality  failed  to  fathom.  It 
was  plain  enough  to  Alison  what  shining  stone  of 
remembrance  lay  at  the  bottom  of  Ysobel's  pool  of 

233 


The  Strength    of  the    Hills 

silence.  Alison  felt  that  delicious  sadness  that 
comes  of  another's  sorrow  pressed  at  one's  own  mo- 
ment of  happiness.  It  tinged  her  mood  with  tender- 
ness as  a  young  mist  softens  the  splendors  of  dawn 
on  a  hill-top. 

"  Remember,  Alison,  that  I  haven't  seen  a  blessed 
thing  of  your  trousseau,"  said  Mrs.  Edward,  follow- 
ing Alison  to  the  chiffonier,  "  and  I  want  to  see 
every  rag,  from  travelling-coat  to  night-gown." 

"  Oh,"  laughed  June,  "say  robe  de  null,  it  sounds 
so  much  more — 

"  Prudish,"  said  Mrs.  Edward.  "  Night-gown  is 
plain  English ;  no  dreaming  -  robe  or  resurrection- 
garment  for  me." 

"  I  always  say  '  nightie,'  "  said  Mrs.  John ;  "  it 
has  such  an  affectionate  sound." 

"  I've  only  one  thing  to  show,"  said  Alison,  "  so 
please  don't  embarrass  me  by  talking  of  lace  cami- 
soles and  things.  You  know  it's  a  concession  that 
I'm  to  have  any  kind  of  a  wedding  at  all." 

"  What  an  immoral  spirit !"  said  Mrs.  Ruddle, 
with  a  gleam. 

"  I  always  said,  and  Richard  agrees,  that  a  big, 
fussy  wedding  is  a  travesty  of  what  should  be  the 
most  sacred,  intimate,  shyest  ceremony  of  our  life. 
Why  the  vulgarity  persists  amazes  me.  The  very 
thought  of  a  column  in  the  society  news,  gifts  and 
gowns  in  gaudy  enumeration,  makes  me  shudder. 
And  a  churchful  of  staring,  gossipy  people  to  run 
the  gamut  of,  no  more  your  friends  than  they  are 
capable  of  understanding  friendship — the  very  idea 
desecrates  marriage." 

Alison  was  very  serious. 

"  My  child,"  said  Mrs.  John,  reproachfully,  "  I 
234 


The   Gown 

was  married  in  church;  one  of  the  largest  weddings 
for  many  years  in  Philadelphia." 

"  I  stepped  out  of  a  hansom  into  St.  Marylebone," 
Mrs.  Edward  popped  in,  triumphantly,  "  just  Ed- 
ward and  I,  with  cabby  and  verger  for  witnesses." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,  Millicent,"  said  Mrs.  John, 
wriggling  her  stout  shoulders  suggestively.  "  Ali- 
son wouldn't  do  anything  like  that." 

"  What  I  should  like,"  Alison  hastened  to  say, 
"  Richard  and  I,  would  be  to  jump  off  our  horses 
after  a  canter  through  the  woods  some  fine  morning, 
step  into  a  little  country  church,  with  the  pines 
whispering  at  the  door,  and  be  married  as  simply 
as  we  fell  in  love." 

"  Bully  for  you  !"  said  Ysobel. 

"  So  hastily,"  complained  Mrs.  John. 

"  Not  hastily,  dearie.  The  mere  moment  of  mar- 
riage matters  little,  the  less  premeditated  the  more 
beautiful  and  spontaneous.  But  never  fear!  In 
deference  to  convention  and  the  preferences  of  all 
you  dear  people,  the  marriage  day  is  fixed,  and  you 
are  in  here  to  see  my  wedding-dress." 

"  Did  Madame  Louise  make  it  ?  You  never 
would  tell  me,"  asked  June. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  Mrs.  John  answered,  liking 
this  way  of  showing  her  confidential  relations.  "  It 
came  yesterday." 

"  That  was  my  travelling-dress,  dear,"  said  Ali- 
son. "  Do  you  want  to  see  it  ?" 

The  travelling-dress  was  spread  out  on  the  bed  in 
its  harmony  of  delicate  browns  and  glistenings  of 
pale  color  around  the  neck  and  waist. 

"  That  coffee-colored  chiffon  is  a  dream,"  said 
June,  "  and  the  way  she  has  sewed  these  straps  on, 

235 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

jour  skirt  is  stunning.  I  declare,  I'm  going  to  com- 
plain about  this  blue  cloth  she  just  finished  for  me. 
It  ain't  half  as  chic." 

"  Remember,  Alison  is  a  bride,"  Mrs.  Ned  con- 
soled her. 

"  But  the  wedding-dress !"  begged  Ysobel,  who  be- 
gan to  suspect  that  Alison  had  a  surprise  in  store 
for  them. 

"  Before  you  see  it,  I  want  to  explain,"  said  Ali- 
son, standing  with  her  back  to  them  and  lifting  the 
lid  of  her  box.  "  No,  I  think  I  won't."  She  took 
out  from  its  tissue  paper  a  heap  of  white,  and  laid 
it  on  the  bed. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  modestly,  standing  on  one  side, 
with  folded  hands,  like  a  child  who  displays  its 
first  picture  on  a  slate. 

"  Spread  it  out,"  said  June,  dropping  from  her 
window-bench  to  join  the  little  groiTp. 

"  It  won't  spread,"  Alison  humbly  confessed. 
"  It's  the  limpy  kind." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence  as  the  women 
gazed  sympathetically  at  the  wedding  -  dress  and 
then  at  Alison.  They  had  been  prepared  to  break 
into  voluble  admiration,  but  the  plain  and  un- 
adorned crepy  folds  of  the  dress  and  the  severe  lines 
of  the  bodice,  innocent  of  froth  and  frill,  com- 
municated an  instant  disappointment,  which  was 
followed  by  compassion  for  its  owner.  When  a 
child  of  older  growth  displays  for  admiration  a 
picture  that  no  once  can  admire,  he  is  met  by  the 
truthful  pity  of  silence,  the  pitiful  silence  that 
surrounds  infatuation.  The  same  sort  of  silence 
surrounded  Alison  and  her  wedding  -  dress  till  June 
spoke. 

236 


The  Gown 

"  It's  the  sort  of  thing  that  looks  better  on,  isn't 
it,  Alison?" 

Every  one  laughed. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  Alison  said, 
"  I  made  it." 

"You?     No!" 

"  Yes,  with  my  own  hands.     I  wanted  to." 

"  I  thought  you  hated  sewing,"  said  June, 
blankly. 

"  But  I  loved  this." 

"  You  dear,  sentimental  thing,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Ed- 
ward, catching  Alison  in  an  unpremeditated  em- 
brace. 

Mrs.  John  sat  down  dramatically  in  a  large  arm- 
chair and  expressed  her  feelings  by  a  series  of  tear- 
ful ejaculations.  For  the  moment  it  was  even  for- 
gotten that  she  and  the  arch-enemy  mingled  their 
voices  amicably  in  the  same  strain. 

"  That  accounts  for  all  your  mysterious  absences 
from  our  piazza,"  said  Mrs.  Ned. 

"  When  we  thought  you  were  resting,"  added 
June,  a  little  bitterly,  and  still  with  the  unappeas- 
able wonder  of  the  habitually  curious. 

"  Dear  Alison,"  murmured  Mrs.  John. 

"  Don't  make  so  much  of  it,"  said  Alison ;  "  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  I 
wanted  a  simple  gown,  and  it  is  so  easy  for  me  to 
carve  out  and  put  together." 

"  But  I  thought  you  hated  it,"  repeated  June, 
blankly. 

"  I  do  hate  the  most  of  sewing,"  said  Alison ;  "  it 
is  heartless  and  mechanical.  And  so  many  girls  I 
know  fritter  their  days  for  the  sake  of  adding  a  lit- 
tle to  their  store  of  finery.  But  this  was  different. 

237 


The  Strength   of  the   Hills 

With  every  stitch  I  was  sewing  in  hopes  and  mem- 
ories, and  my  wedding-day  will  be  all  the  sweeter 
for  my  own  handiwork." 

"  ~No  one  helped  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  John. 

"  Only  little  Mary,"  said  Alison,  tenderly ;  "  she 
hemmed  this  breadth  with  immense  pains  and  un- 
bounded delight.  Look  at  the  dear,  little,  irregular 
stitches." 

"  And  she  never  told  us,  that  precious  Chatter- 
box!" Mrs.  John  exclaimed. 

"  Dear,  little,  faithful  soul,"  said  Alison.  "  She 
was  simply  bursting  with  the  secret.  Listen,  she  is 
in  the  hall.  Mary !" 

Little  Mary  came  running  in,  fresh  from  out- 
doors, with  her  hands  full  of  Indian  pipes. 

"  Look  at  ze  littly  pipes,"  she  cried.  "  Zey  are 
like  dead  ladies'  fingers."  She  laughed  jubilantly. 

"  You  shouldn't  talk  like  that,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
John,  mildly  reproachful,  "  about  dead  ladies." 

Mrs.  John  was  superintendent  of  the  primary  de- 
partment in  the  Sunday  -  school,  and  had  a  distin- 
guished incapacity  for  taking  children's  points  of 
view.  Her  method  of  subjugation  was  a  combina- 
tion of  pompous  condescension  and  colored  picture- 
cards,  interspersed  with  layers  of  moral  instruction 
and  equally  harmless  rock-candy. 

Little  Mary  was  silenced,  not  by  the  reproof, 
which,  with  a  child's  rare  intelligence,  she  recog- 
nized as  characteristic  of  its  source,  but  by  the  sight 
of  the  great  white  secret  Iving  exposed  upon  the 
bed. 

"  Oh,  Alison !"  she  cried,  in  a  round,  amazed 
voice,  like  a  bubble  ready  to  break — "  oh,  Alison !" 
The  baby  mouth  quivered. 

238 


The   Gown 

"  It's  all  right,  darling,"  said  Alison,  taking  the 
child  up  into  her  arms.  "  It  was  time  to  tell." 

"  Did  you  show  zem  my  piece  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Edward.  "  We  saw  your 
piece.  It  is  bee-youtiful." 

"  I  sink  so,"  cried  Mary.  "  Zat  littly  red  place 
is  w'ere  I  plicked  my  sum.  Alison  said,  ( Don't 
cly.  It  makes  it  more  plitty.' ' 

Ysobel  had  been  very  quiet  for  the  last  five  min- 
utes. She  had  left  the  group,  and  sat  with  her 
back  to  them,  looking  out  of  the  window.  Her  hand- 
kerchief was  rolled  into  a  ball  and  clenched  tight- 
ly in  her  right  hand.  She  now  rose  and  came  im- 
petuously forward. 

"  So  you  have  sewed  blood  and  tears,  as  well  as 
hopes  and  memories,  into  your  wedding-dress,  Ali- 
son !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  loud,  unnatural  voice. 
Laughing,  she  left  the  room. 

"  What  a  terrible  speech !"  murmured  one  of  the 
ladies. 

Alison's  expression  was  very  grave  as  she  fold- 
ed the  dress  and  laid  it  away. 

"  You  didn't  see  her  eyes,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  John, 
who  was  the  last  to  go.  "  She  had  been  crying." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Ysobel    and    Richard 

THE  high  C  of  emotion  cannot  be  indefinitely 
maintained.  Grief  and  joy  at  the  climax  last  but  a 
moment.  The  apex  is  always  a  point.  These  are  the 
limitations  of  the  finite ;  perhaps  in  that  realm  where 
the  Master  -  Musician  holds  sway  the  taut  strings 
may  sound  their  divinest  note  without  breaking,  but 
on  earth  it  is  mercifully  not  so.  After  the  hour 
of  intense  joy  or  pain,  some  women  seek  the  sensuous 
relief  of  tears.  They  are  the  simple,  human  souls. 
Some,  to  whom  anguish  comes  remote  and  subtle — 
a  thing  interwoven  with  a  hundred  strands — plunge 
themselves  in  music  or  a  poem.  Imperceptibly  their 
own  sorrow  will  blend  with  ideal  sorrows,  and,  like 
two  streams,  mingling,  sweep  to  the  sea  of  forget- 
fulness.  Some,  with  shut  ears  and  eyes,  set  a-going 
the  dull  treadle  of  daily  work.  These  are  the  fortu- 
nate, to  whom  work  is  a  commonplace  and  a  ne- 
cessity. Some — and  these  are  the  passive,  deeply 
wounded  ones — will  sit  and  sit  and  sit,  brooding, 
staring  into  the  floor  or  wall,  reciting  hopelessly  over 
and  over  again  the  tale  of  the  unappeased  heart. 
Some  with  manufactured  gayety  will  cheat  their  own 
soul  of  her  due,  and  lure  the  world  to  a  belief  in 
their  light-hearted  shallowness.  Pity  these  the  most, 

240 


Ysobel  and    Richard 

for  sympathy  goes  not  out  to  them,  the  dreaded  sym- 
pathy which  is  yet  salvation. 

Ysobel  went  from  Alison's  room  down-stairs  and 
out-of-doors.  She  passed  by  without  speaking  to  the 
two  men,  pacing  up  and  down  the  piazza,  their  pipes 
in  their  mouths;  she  did  not  answer  Ned  Hollister, 
tinkering  with  a  broken  golf -club  on  the  bit  of  lawn. 
It  was  a  chilly  autumn  afternoon,  with  bleak  sunlight 
filtering  through  the  clouds  that  veiled  the  sky.  The 
papery  beech-leaves  fretted  in  the  wind,  and  a  thick 
mat  of  fallen  foliage,  bronze,  dark-red,  and  mottled 
yellow,  carpeted  the  underways.  Ysobel  ran  down 
to  the  boat-house,  where,  behind  its  shelter,  away 
from  the  wind,  she  sat  in  a  pale  strip  of  sun,  and 
looked  down  into  the  water  of  the  lake.  She  was 
quite  hidden  from  view  here,  and,  looking  out  across 
the  water  to  the  lonely  other  shore,  could  easily  for- 
get that  she  was  near  people.  The  water,  like  the 
sky,  was  still  and  gray,  and  reflected,  with  exquisite, 
subdued  gradations  of  color,  the  autumnal  woods  op- 
posite. What  is  the  elusive  charm  of  reflection  ?  Like 
a  story  well  told,  or  a  portrait  ideally  treated,  it 
doubles  the  beauty  of  the  original — more  than  this, 
it  adds  an  indefinable  charm,  a  light  that  never  was 
on  sea  or  land.  It  is  the  beauty  of  unreality,  the 
divineness  of  the  unattainable. 

One  little  scarlet  maple  flamed  above  and  below 
the  lake's  border,  set  in  a  clump  of  olive-green  ce- 
dars. Here  was  a  band  of  filmy  blue  brushed  across 
the  hill-side,  almost  like  a  wreath  of  smoke  resting  on 
the  tree-tops,  a  strip  of  burned  woodland,  the  naked 
branches  dreamily  faint  from  this  distance.  Where 
the  hills  sloped  down  into  Elder  River  there  was  a 
bit  of  hollow  marsh-land,  golden  with  coarse  water- 
Q  241 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

plants  and  sedges,  that  glowed  like  a  round  Etruscan 
brooch  in  its  setting  of  reflected  bronzes  and  gar- 
nets. 

Ysobel  had  seized  somebody's  golf  cape  from  a 
piazza-chair  as  she  went  by,  and  she  wrapped  this 
about  her  shoulders  and  knees  as  she  sat  there,  pain- 
fully absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  while  the  still 
autumn  beauty  preached  endurance. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Ysobel  ?"  said  a  debonair 
voice.  Richard  Hollister  dropped  on  the  pier  be- 
side her.  "  You  look  like  a  sulky  kitten  in  a  muff." 

"  I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  humor,  Dick !" 

"  Awfully  sorry.     Can  I  do  anything  ?" 

"  No,  you  can't." 

"  Sorry  again.  I'd  like  to,  Ysobel.  But  don't 
frown  at  me.  I'd  rather  your  smiles  than  your 
frowns,  Ysobel." 

"  Let's  drown  ourselves.  Here  goes !  One,  two, 
three!" 

"  By  George,  Ysobel,  are  you  crazy  ?  You'd  have 
gone  over  then  if  I  hadn't  caught  you!"  He  held 
her  by  the  arms,  and  drew  her  backward  under  the 
eaves  of  the  little  boat-house. 

"  Let  me  go,  Dick." 

"  N"ot  till  you  look  me  straight  in  the  eyes  and  tell 
me  that  you're  sane  again." 

Ysobel  levelled  her  eyes  straight  at  his — her  great, 
splendid  gray  eyes,  like  a  fearless  boy's. 

"  Lordy,  don't  hold  me  with  your  glittering  eye !" 
she  cried,  breaking  out  into  one  of  her  crystal  smiles. 
"  How  do  I  look,  your  Dickship  ?" 

'  You  have  the  eyes  of  an  angel,  Ysobel,"  he  said, 
with  the  little  quiver  in  his  dented  chin  that  came 
when  he  was  moved. 

242 


Ysobel  and  Richard 

"  Rubbish !"  she  exclaimed,  freeing  herself  from 
him  and  kicking  up  a  stone  amid  a  flying  remon- 
strance of  leaves.  "  Come  on ;  let's  have  a  ride." 

"  It  '11  have  to  be  a  short  one.  Alison  and  I  are 
going  up  to  Enoch  Holme's  after  dinner." 

"  Short  or  long,  sad  or  gay,  to  paradise  or  per- 
dition, I  don't  care,  only  let's  ride  somewhere,  and 
ride  hard." 

As  they  walked  to  the  stables  together,  Richard 
put  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  I  understand,  Ysobel.  But  this  will  pass.  You've 
such  a  lot  to  live  for.  Things  are  all  before  you,  and 
you,  with  your  talent  and  your  charm,  you  can  make 
them  what  you  will." 

"  Maybe,  but  I've  a  fancy,  Dick,  that  they'll  make 
what  they  will  of  me." 

"  Go  and  get  your  habit  on  like  a  good  girl,  and 
I'll  have  the  horses  saddled  by  your  return." 

"  I'm  going  to  ride  in  this,  if  you  please." 

"  In  that  golf  skirt !  But  I  don't  please.  It's. 
too  short." 

She  laughed,  and  swung  off  to  the  house. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  mount,  Alison  came 
out  on  the  piazza. 

"  Pardon  me  a  moment,"  said  Richard  to  Ysobel. 
"  Will  you  hold  Dandy  ?"  He  handed  her  the  bridle- 
reins,  jumped  to  the  ground,  and  ran  towards  Ali- 
son. 

"  Sweetheart,  we're  going  for  a  little  canter." 

"  I'm  so  glad.    Cheer  her  up,"  whispered  Alison. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  kissing  her. 

"  Good-bye.  It's  five  o'clock,  Dick.  Remember 
we  dine  at  six  to-night,  and  we  mustn't  be  late  for 
Enoch  Holme's." 

243 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  Good-bye."  They  kissed  again,  and  then  Alison 
watched  the  two  equestrians  out  of  sight,  as  they 
trotted  slowly  away  among  the  trees  of  the  forest. 
They  waved  their  hands  to  her  at  the  last  curve. 

Having  left  the  woods,  they  cantered  gayly  through 
the  village  street,  past  the  old  mill,  sunk  in  its  gray 
stillness,  and  the  white-painted  houses  of  the  village 
folk,  with  the  geranium-bordered,  straight  walks  to 
the  door-step.  Then  came  a  bit  of  brushy  wood,  and 
then  the  cross-roads,  where  one  turned  to  the  right  to 
follow  the  windings  of  Crooked  Brook,  away  and 
away  through  a  lonely  country  to  a  sequestered  ham- 
let, with  the  unsuggestive  name  of  Perkinsville ;  to 
the  left  one  climbed  a  steep  hill,  up  and  up  and 
up,  and  then  one  was  on  the  breezy  upland  ledge, 
where  Alison  and  Enoch  had  driven  the  night  of  the 
storm,  with  village,  lake,  and  stream  lying  like  a 
map  below.  They  paused  at  the  cross-roads,  where 
behind  the  dusky  fir -grove  stood  the  sedate  white 
church  in  its  week-day  reticence.  Neither  had  yet 
spoken.  The  keen  air  had  brought  a  flush  of  fine 
color  to  Ysobel's  transparent  cheek  and  a  dancing 
light  to  Richard's  eyes.  He  flicked  his  whip  question- 
ingly  to  right  and  to  left. 

Ysobel  looked  down  along  the  Crooked  Brook  road, 
as  it  dipped  and  sank  into  a  marshy  thicket,  where 
now  the  late  autumn  vines  were  blazing  among  the 
low  alders  and  the  red  of  the  wild-rose  hips  deco- 
rated the  road-side  shrubbery. 

"  I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  below  the  little  wood," 
she  said. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  leave  me  the  common  crofts." 

Ysobel  pointed  upward,  leaning  over  her  horse 
persuasively,  as  he  broke  into  a  long,  easy  gallop  up 

244 


Ysobel  and  Richard 

the  first  incline.  "  That's  the  appropriate  country," 
she  said.  "  Thither  our  path  lies ;  wind  we  up  the 
heights." 

Richard  gained  a  place  beside  her,  and  the  two 
horses  fell  into  sympathetic  company  up  the  long 
hill.  Companionship  is  one  of  the  rarest,  purest, 
most  elevated  of  emotions.  Next  to  love,  it  lies  at 
the  basis  of  civilization,  and,  unlike  love,  it  never 
becomes  a  corrosive  flame  that  eats  away.  When 
to  the  spiritual  companionship  is  added  the  bond  of 
a  muscular  exercise  in  common,  there  is  I  know  not 
what  added  ease  and  intimacy  of  relation.  The 
rhythmical  unison  of  comrade  feet  beside  one's  own 
as  one  swings  across  country  of  a  cloud-swept  after- 
noon, the  rhythmical  unison  of  another  paddle  as 
one  noiselessly  slips  down  a  bird-haunted  stream, 
brings  together  two  natures,  two  souls,  as  they  never 
are  brought  together  in  other  ways.  And  when  the 
living  beat  of  companion  animals  mixes  with  the 
beat  of  human  hearts,  as  two  ride  side  by  side,  an- 
other mysterious  syllable  is  spelled  in  the  mysterious 
language  that  souls  speak.  The  inarticulate  language 
of  silence  is  so  much  more  flexible,  more  potent,  than 
the  language  of  articulate  noise. 

They  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and  rested.  The 
two  horses  gave  each  other  sidelong  glances  out  of 
those  wonderful  liquid  eyes  that  no  man  understands, 
and  put  trembling  noses  together  in  perfect  under- 
standing. 

"  Beautiful  creature !"  said  Richard,  patting  the 
silky  neck  of  Ysobel's  bay  mare. 

"  Dandy,"  said  Ysobel,  absently,  putting  an  arm 
around  Richard's  to  stroke  his  horse's  head.  "  Oh, 
Richard,  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you !" 

245 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

"For  what,  child?" 

"  For  this  and  this — and — you." 

She  laid  a  hand  upon  Dandy  and  Fantine,  and  then 
impulsively  put  her  hand  on  his,  which  rested  lightly 
on  his  pommel.  Richard  was  nothing  if  not  respon- 
sive, so  he  held  her  hand  a  moment,  saying : 

"  'Tis  easy  to  please  you,  Ysobel ;  command  me 
again." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  easy  to  please  me,  but  you  please 
me  without  trying,  and  the  people  who  try  don't 
please  at  all." 

"  Ah,  you're  a  spoiled  child.  You've  had  too  many 
dolls  given  you,  and  now  you  throw  them  away." 

"  Richard,  look  at  me.  I've  had  too  many  dolls 
given  me!" 

She  repeated  his  words  with  such  intensity  that 
they  had  at  once  a  new  meaning.  "  Too  many  dolls, 
and  never  a  warm  human  heart !" 

Richard,  not  keyed  up  to  her  pitch,  said  lightly : 

"  Take  mine,  Ysobel,"  then,  looking  at  her,  saw 
that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Dandy  and  Fantine  by  this  time  had  come  to  their 
own  conclusions,  and  were  walking  along  the  sunset 
road,  quietly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  their  riders,  who, 
as  they  well  understood,  were  absorbed  in  matters 
that  left  them  oblivious  to  the  obvious  equine  neces- 
sity of  going  somewhere.  A  pair  of  tentative  ears 
laid  back ;  sensitive  flanks  that  felt  the  relaxed  limbs 
of  the  riders ;  then  an  exchange  of  equine  looks  that 
said,  "  We  know  " ;  a  dilated  nostril  that  said,  "  We 
understand  " ;  and  Dandy  and  Fantine  had  master- 
ed the  human  situation. 

"  Forgive  me,  child,"  he  said.  He  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it. 

246 


Ysobel  and  Richard 

"  I  am  sure  you  must  be  a  delightful  lover,"  laugh- 
ed Ysobel,  recovering  herself.  "  Where  are  we  go- 
ing ?  I  suppose  it  must  be  home." 

"  By  George,  no !"  said  Richard,  fascinated  by 
Ysobel's  quick  change  of  mood.  The  touch  of  her 
wrist,  where  he  had  kissed  it,  was  still  on  his  lips. 
Such  a  blend  of  tears  and  deviltry  he  had  never 
before  known.  "  Let's  ride." 

"  To  the  sunset,  then,"  said  she,  looking  down  the 
long  stretch  of  twilight  road,  that  dwindled  to  a  pool 
of  orange  color,  framed  between  converging  forest, 
all  in  a  purple  mist  of  lace  at  the  road's  end. 

"  At  this  hour  one  must  travel  on  and  on,  and 
one  will  at  last  find  it." 

"  What '?"  asked  concrete  Richard. 

"  That,"  said  Ysobel,  pointing  down  the  road  to 
the  orange  pool.  "  Let's  ride,  ride,  ride !  Come, 
Dick!"  Nothing  but  the  sound  of  the  horses'  feet 
was  heard  as  the  figures  galloped  side  by  side,  in  the 
fast-gathering  twilight. 

"  Dick,"  said  Ysobel,  "  where  are  we  going  ?  To 
the  end  of  things,  I  hope." 

"  If  we  go  on  and  on,"  said  Richard,  "  we  shall 
come  to  Windy  Flanders,  and  then  to  Loon  Lake." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  This  is  the  road  I  have  al- 
ways looked  for,  and  it  leads  to  the  End  of  Things. 
Ride,  ride,  ride!" 

They  rode  on,  and  the  twilight  fell  from  the  trees, 
the  orange  deepened  to  smoky  red,  faded  to  dull  rose, 
shaded  to  lilac  and  violet,  and  still  the  dwindling 
distance  narrowed  to  a  pool  of  light  between  the  pur- 
ple tree-tops.  As  the  road  turned,  the  great  top  of 
Mount  Marcy  came  up  against  the  sky,  and  its  crest 
was  still  rosy  with  the  last  sunlight, 

247 


The  Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  Thither  our  path  lies ;  wind  we  up  the  heights," 
chanted  Ysobel,  drawing  rein  and  taking  her  hat 
from  her  head.  Her  loosened  hair  fell  in  a  mass 
about  her  shoulders. 

"  There,  don't  move,"  said  Kichard.  "  You  are 
perfect." 

"What  do  I  look  like?" 

"  Just  Ysobel  —  and  —  the  dickens !  You  have 
made  me  late  for  dinner  and  for  Alison !" 


CHAPTER  XXII 
A    Rainy   Morning 

IT  was  an  autumn  day  of  the  melancholy  kind, 
monotonous  drip,  hooded  skies,  all  the  forest  black 
with  wetness,  underfoot  the  leaves  matted  like  layers 
of  soaked  sponge,  overhead  the  clinging  leaves  bead- 
ed with  rain  from  every  point  and  angle.  They  drear- 
ily jostled  each  other,  while  the  fitful  gusts  blew  the 
alders  slant-wise,  and  precipitated  little  individual 
showers  from  every  beech-tree.  A  few  crows  circled 
and  cawed  with  gloomy  exultation  about  the  edges 
of  Lake  Miquewauga.  It  was  Alison's  marriage- 
day. 

"  Isn't  it  too  bad  ?"  cried  Richard's  mother,  com- 
fortably. "  Such  a  day  for  dear  Alison  and  Rich- 
ard!" 

"  They  will  have  to  take  the  stage  to  Elizabeth- 
town,  that  is  all,"  remarked  Colonel  Hollister,  dryly. 

Richard  and  Alison  had  planned  a  horseback 
jaunt  for  the  bridal  tour.  The  ceremony  was  to  be 
at  noon,  and  then,  as  Alison  gayly  expressed  it,  they 
would  gallop  off  in  a  glory  of  red  and  yellow  leaves 
for  the  shores  of  Arcady.  However,  there  was  noth- 
ing romantic  or  spectacular  in  two  mackintoshed  and 
rubbered  individuals  creeping  into  a  covered  buck- 
board  between  accumulations  of  miscellaneous  bag- 

249 


The  Strength   of  the   Hills 

gage,  and  rumbling  away  at  a  hand-trot  between 
dripping  forest  aisles,  to  land  at  some  lonely  moun- 
tain inn,  where  the  residue  of  summer  visitors  would 
hug  their  shawls  and  crochet-work  in  front  of  a 
meagre  fire. 

A  very  few  guests  were  expected  on  the  night  train 
from  New  York,  and  among  them  Mrs.  Hollister's 
clergyman,  who  was  to  perform  the  ceremony.  A 
wagon-load  of  flowers  had  come  up  from  the  city 
the  day  before,  mostly  yellow  and  white  chrysan- 
themums. 

The  alcove  where  Alison  was  to  stand  was  banked 
with  these,  while  halls  and  stairways  were  decked 
with  autumn  leaves  and  berries  from  the  fields  and 
woods. 

Mary  had  for  a  long  time  been  watching  carefully 
over  a  little  colony  of  bunch-berries  that  grew  scarlet 
and  plump  in  one  of  her  particular  "  places  "  in  a 
wood  not  far  from  the  boat-house.  Every  simple  and 
nature-loving  child  has  this  sense  of  ownership  in 
certain  beloved  spots,  which  are  hers  and  hers  alone. 
The  poor,  sightless  grown-ups  pass  them  by  without 
a  gleam  of  understanding,  while  the  little  child  that 
follows  at  their  skirts  feels  her  heart  thrill  with  mut- 
ual understanding  as  her  feet  touch  the  enchanted 
particular  "  place." 

On  the  morning  of  the  marriage  Mary  looked  out 
with  despair  on  the  gray  rain  that  veiled  the  din- 
ing-room windows.  She  had  gone  to  bed  the  night 
before  full  of  the  lovely  surprise  for  Alison  when 
she  should  bring  her  the  cherished  berries  from  her 
"  place " ;  to  have  acquainted  the  grown-ups  with 
her  design,  to  have  had  any  of  their  large,  obtuse 
presences  at  the  gathering,  would  spoil  it  all,  take 

250 


A  Rainy  Morning 

away  the  sweetness  and  the  secrecy.  Mary  did  not 
at  all  understand  this  mysterious  "  marriage  "  that 
all  the  house  talked  about,  but  it  was  something  very 
nice,  that  made  Alison  kiss  her,  and  hold  her  very 
close,  and  Dick  call  her  "  little  sister." 

"  Eat  your  oat-meal,  Mary,"  said  Aunty  Hollister. 

"  I  tan't,"  said  Marv,  sadly. 

"Why  not,  dear?" 

"  Because  it's  waining,"  and  the  tears  welled  up 
in  her  eyes. 

"  There's  a  good  little  girl,"  soothed  Uncle  Hol- 
lister, putting  an  extra  spoonful  of  sugar  on  Mary's 
oat-meal.  "  She  mustn't  cry  on  Alison's  marriage- 
day." 

"  It's  dying  out  doors ;  so  I've  got  to  cly  in  here," 
reasoned  she,  valiantly  choking  down  a  small  portion 
of  porridge.  Philosophy  for  a  moment  diverted  her 
from  her  grief.  "  Do  trees  feel  awful  bad,  same  as 
littly  gells  ?  Is  zere  any  one  to  comfort  zem  ?"  Alison 
had  not  yet  come  down  to  breakfast,  so  there  was 
no  one  to  answer  Mary.  She  proceeded  to  answer 
herself. 

"  I  suppose  ze  muzzer  and  fazzer  trees  are  good 
to  ze  littly  trees." 

Mary  laughed  at  the  thought,  the  dimples  coming 
into  her  baby  cheeks,  that  were  still  a  little  moist 
with  recent  tears.  The  elder  folks  talked  among 
themselves  till  Mary,  who  had  been  deeply  meditat- 
ing along  the  line  of  parental  mysteries,  filled  in  a 
silence  with : 

"  Enoch  Holme  has  a  fazzer.  He  plomised  to 
bling  me  some  paper-dolls  zat  his  fazzer  makes.  I 
didn't  know  he  had  a  fazzer.  I  sought  he  was  a 
fazzer." 

251 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

After  breakfast,  Mary  guilelessly  asked  for  her 
coat  and  hat.  An  earnest  debate  ensued  between 
her  on  the  one  side,  and  June  and  Mrs.  Hollister  on 
the  other.  The  two  grown-ups  gently  remonstrated 
against  the  child's  whimsical  design,  but  Mary 
was  tragic  in  her  persistence.  Go  out  into  the  rain 
she  must,  and  she  must  go  alone,  but  she  would 
only  stay  a  little,  little  while,  and  she  would  not  walk 
in  the  long  grass,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  morning 
she  would  be  so  good,  and  not  ask  anybody  any  ques- 
tions, and  not  eat  any  candies,  and  not  strum  on 
the  piano  (dear,  delightful  pursuit  of  discords), 
and  submit  herself  to  Hannah's  beautifying  devices 
— to  be  scrubbed,  ringleted,  and  frilled  without  a 
whimper  or  a  wriggle. 

Alison  opened  the  door  of  her  room  opportunely, 
and  Mary  ran  to  her  arms  with  a  fresh  plea  for  lib- 
erty. 

"  You  all  seem  to  forget  zat  I  was  six  years  old 
yesterday  month." 

Alison  comprehended  an  unusual  intensity  in 
Mary's  tone.  "  We  will  let  her  go,"  she  decided,  and 
little  Mary,  hooded  and  capped,  and  radiant,  hasten- 
ed out  to  her  adored  and  particular  "  place  "  where 
grew  the  bunch-berries  for  Alison's  "  malliage." 

It  was  a  moist  but  triumphant  little  personage  that 
burst  into  Alison's  room  later,  with  a  stiff,  crumpled 
frock,  full  of  wet  grass,  tangled  with  the  beloved 
berries.  Alison  picked  out  one  by  one  the  short- 
%  stemmed  offerings,  and  promised  to  wear  one  in  her 
hair,  bridal-white  to  the  contrary. 

For  a  couple  of  hours  Alison  was  alone  in  her 
room,  with  the  pines  against  the  window. 

A  cheery  little  fire  of  cones  crackled  in  the  grate. 
252 


A  Rainy  Morning 

Alison  sat  in  her  dressing-gown,  with  her  feet  up  on 
the  fender,  and  a  package  of  old  letters  in  her  lap. 
She  had  the  very  girlish  habit  of  regarding  life  as 
divided  into  certain  epochs,  and  of  liking  to  mark 
these  epochs  from  each  other  by  sentimental  boun- 
daries. When  she  was  a  child,  she  had  regarded 
sixteen  as  the  landmark  between  childhood  and  young 
ladyhood,  and  had  figured  herself  at  sixteen  as  a  new 
self,  with  ideals,  privileges,  and  possibilities  sprung 
full-grown  from  the  momentous  anniversary  birth- 
day. At  the  age  of  twelve  she  had  indited  a  letter 
addressed  "  To  myself  on  my  sixteenth  birthday." 
This  letter  Alison  had  just  found,  done  up  with  others 
of  later  days,  from  her  mother  and  father  during  her 
early  girlhood,  written  to  her  when  either  she  had 
been  away  at  school  or  they  in  Europe. 

To  the  sympathetic  ear  of  sixteen,  little  twelve- 
year-old  poured  out  her  childish  joys  and  sorrows, 
related  as  if  to  a  stranger  the  daily  experience  of 
her  life,  and  then  asked  eagerly  after  the  welfare" 
of  sixteen,  and  offered  glowing  conjectures  at  the 
shrine  of  her  beauty  and  emancipation. 

It  read,  in  the  sprawly,  irregular  hand  not  yet 
emancipated  from  copy-book  curves: 

"DEAR  ME, — I  don't  mean  that  I  feel  badly,  but  it's 
because  I'm  writing  to  me  when  I'm  sixteen.  Oh, 
how  I  do  wish  that  I  could  see  you  and  know  where 
you  are  and  how  big  you  will  be.  I  was  twelve  years 
old  last  November,  but  it  is  now  January.  I  have 
to  wear  my  hair  loose  because  mamma  says  it  is  more 
fashionable,  but  Mary  Haskins  says  it  looks  like  a 
Hottentot,  and  it  gets  in  my  eyes  when  I  do  my  lessons. 
She  has  yellowish  hair  and  nice  smooth  curls  like  buns. 
I  tried  to  wet  it  and  brush  it  very  flat  before  I  go  to 

253 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

school,  but  Mary  sits  behind  me,  and  she  wrote  '  niggah ' 
on  her  slate  and  passed  it  over  to  me.  The  teacher  called 
her  up  for  this,  but  I  had  rubbed  it  out,  and  Mary  said 
she  had  written  down  an  example  in  fractions.  Fractions 
is  something  dreadful.  Dear  myself,  are  you  doing  frac- 
tions now  when  you  read  this?  I  s'pose  you  understand 
all  about  them  and  the  queer  problems  at  the  end  of  the 
book.  Do  you  have  to  study?  Of  course  not,  for  you  are 
a  young  lady,  and  have  dresses  with  long  hems  that  make 
a  lovely  sound  when  you  come  down-stairs,  and  little  girls 
behind  you  have  to  walk  very  slow  for  fear  they  will  step 
on  the  tail  of  your  ruffles.  I  suppose  you  do  your  hair  up 
on  the  top  and  wear  a  flower  in  it  for  dinner.  Is  it  so  very 
kinky  ?  I  never  saw  a  grown-up  lady  with  hair  like  mine, 
so  I  think  it  will  change.  I  like  poetry.  I  like  Shelley, 
but  Dick  says  I'm  queer  and  poetry  is  rot.  Don't  you 
think  Shelley  is  beautiful?  I  like  Shakespeare's  plays, 
especially  'Romeo  and  Juliet,'  and  'Lear/  Lamb's  tales 
are  almost  nicer.  I  do  love  stories  about  lovers  and 
moonlight  and  stained-glass  windows  like  St.  Agnes's  Eve. 
I  think  it  would  be  nice  to  run  away  like  that.  Dick 
says  that  is  only  in  books,  and  that  love  is  silly  stuff  for 
girls  to  chatter  about.  I  wonder  who  my  husband  will  be. 
Dear  myself,  you  probably  know,  for  you  are  sixteen  and 
maybe  engaged  to  him.  You  don't  have  to  go  to  bed  at 
half-past  eight,  do  you,  and  have  you  learned  to  play 
pretty  pieces,  or  do  you  have  to  do  tiresome  scales  and 
exercises?  My  music  teacher  is  very  handsome,  but  cross 
as  scissors,  and  when  I  strike  the  wrong  note  he  sticks 
his  fingers  into  his  ears  and  jumps  up,  shouting,  '  Great 
heavens,  young  lady!' 

"  I  have  often  said  that  I  was  going  to  name  my  oldest 
little  boy  Ethelwulf,  and  my  oldest  little  girl  Gwendolen. 
I  think  I  will  have  about  six.  I  haven't  decided  whether 
three  boys  and  three  girls  or  four  boys  and  two  girls. 
Aunty  Hollister  says  it  isn't  proper  for  little  girls  to  talk 
about  their  children,  but  I  don't  see  why. 

254 


A  Rainy  Morning 

"You  can't  answer  this,  I  know,  for  by  the  time  you 
get  it,  there  will  be  no  I. 

"Your  loving  self, 

"  ALISON." 


Here  the  little  document  ended,  and  Alison  smiled 
as  she  put  it  back  into  its  childish  pink  envelope, 
the  one  existing  sample  of  a  long-ago  vanished  box  of 
stationery  she  had  received  the  Christmas  that  she 
was  twelve. 

"  I  wonder  who  my  husband  will  be !" 

How  life  had  glided  along  for  her,  so  that  now 
the  unlooked-for  change  that  had  come  into  her  life, 
the  loss  of  her  home  and  of  her  parents,  seemed  al- 
most as  if  it  had  always  been  part  and  parcel  of  her 
existence,  and  the  most  natural  event  of  all,  this 
development  of  love  between  her  and  her  playmate — 
Richard — their  betrothal,  seemed  at  that  moment  cu- 
rious and  startling. 

The  little  fire  of  pine-cones  blazed  away  and  sank 
into  leaf-like  embers  of  gold,  and  the  gray  rain  fell 
across  the  window.  A  wind  that  had  just  risen  tossed 
the  plumes  of  the  pine-tree  about,  and  the  sound  of 
the  sea  was  in  its  branches.  It  is  possible  for  the 
mind  to  be  so  absorbed  in  a  single  thought,  or,  rather, 
so  wrapped  about  with  a  certain  mood,  that  time 
passes,  and  one  wakes  as  from  a  deep  sleep,  with 
the  feeling  that  soul  has  been  absent  from  body,  and 
with  entire  ignorance  of  what  soul  has  been  doing. 
The  very  intensity  of  mood  blots  it  out  from  after- 
consciousness.  It  must  have  been  a  sudden  illumina- 
tion of  the  outer  world,  one  of  those  openings  of  the 
sky  that  presage  the  clearing  of  a  windy  autumn 
storm,  that  roused  Alison  to  her  surroundings  again. 

255 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

She  turned  to  the  packet  of  letters.  They  were 
the  chief  reminders  she  had  of  her  father  and  mother, 
and  father  and  mother  had  been  much  in  her  mind 
to-day.  She  could  not  forget  them  on  her  marriage- 
day.  It  was  like  going  into  the  past  to  read  these 
letters,  with  their  tender,  homely  little  pieces  of 
advice,  the  dear,  familiar  details  of  home.  Here 
was  the  last  letter  her  mother  had  ever  written  her, 
received  just  before  the  dreadful  telegram  that  had 
summoned  her  to  her  father's  grave.  It  had  been 
written  the  night  before,  all  unknowing  of  the  fut- 
ure: 

"DEAREST  DAUGHTER, — Papa  has  gone  to  the  club,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Everett,  who  were  calling,  have  just  left. 
The  house  is  quiet,  and  I  am  going  to  take  these  few  mo- 
ments of  leisure  time  to  answer  your  letter  that  came  yes- 
terday. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  have  been  having  this  trouble 
with  your  throat.  Do  not  forget  to  gargle  night  and 
morning  and  wear  your  furs  whenever  you  go  out.  If  it 
is  particularly  windy  or  cold,  a  layer  of  paper  placed 
under  your  coat  is  a  splendid  thing." 

("Dear  mother,  how  practical  and  thoughtful  she 
always  was.") 

"  The  house  looked  very  pretty  for  our  tea  last  week. 
We  had  it  decorated  with  asparagus  and  yellow  flowers — 
genista,  I  think  they  call  them — and  Lander's  orchestra 
sat  behind  the  palms  in  the  alcove.  People  seemed  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and  a  great  many  asked  after  you.  Old 
Mrs.  Carlton  said  she  missed  you.  Dick  was  here  from 
Yale  over  Sunday,  and  looked  stunning  in  his  new  clothes, 
and  overflowed  with  slang  and  good  spirits.  The  Mayley 
girls  went  fairly  wild  over  him,  but  I  don't  think  he  ad- 
mires them  particularly." 

256 


A  Rainy  Morning 

("  Dear  mother,  how  fond  she  always  was  of 
Dick !")  The  letter  continued  in  the  newsy,  scrappy, 
delightful,  matter-of-fact  way  that  home  letters,  and 
home  letters  alone,  have.  Alison  read,  with  eyes 
moistening : 

"  Baby  is  growing  every  day.  She  can  creep  backward, 
and  waves  her  hand  good-bye  very  prettily.  Dick  taught 
her  to  throw  kisses,  and  she  practised  it  this  morning  on 
the  cat  when  the  cook  sent  her  miauling  from  the  kitchen 
into  the  entry. 

"  Your  father  is  still  a  little  out  of  sorts,  has  no  appetite, 
and  doesn't  sleep  well.  I  am  quite  anxious  about  him, 
but  he  will  not  go  to  the  doctor.  If  he  doesn't  improve, 
we  must  try  to  persuade  him  to  take  a  trip  to  Bermuda, 
or  some  other  voyage." 

("Poor,  dear  father!  He  embarked  on  his  voy- 
age, and  without  persuasion.")  The  dark  stain  on 
the  forehead  came  to  Alison's  sight. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Alison  remem- 
bered that  she  had  promised  to  see  Richard  at  a  quar- 
ter before  eleven. 

"  Sweetheart,  not  tears  ?" 

"  Mother's  last  letter,  Dick." 

"  Come  with  me,  Alison,  into  the  den.  Your  fire 
has  gone  down,  and  your  dear  hands  are  cold." 

"  Yes,  Richard,  but  only  for  a  few  minutes.  Han- 
nah is  coming  to  help  me  dress." 

Those  last  minutes  together  before  the  words  of 
the  ritual  made  them  man  and  wife  seemed  to  Alison 
in  the  future  more  sweet  than  any  others.  They  were 
quite  alone  up-stairs,  the  door  closed  between  them 
and  the  hall  and  stairs,  so  that  the  comings  and  goings 
below,  and  the  subdued  murmur  of  preparations, 
R  257 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

came  to  them  faintly,  like  the  murmur  of  remote 
things.  Alison's  heart  was  very  tender  with  dead 
memories  and  the  living  one  of  little  Mary's  rain- 
wet  hands  and  the  apron  full  of  berries.  Her  eyes 
overflowed  into  Richard's  with  a  look  he  mistook  for 
passionate  love,  and  his  eyes  overflowed  to  hers  with 
the  eager  illusion  of  a  seeker  after  happiness.  The 
asseverations  of  love  that  passed  between  them  were 
in  no  material  respect  different  from  those  under 
similar  circumstances  the  world  over.  Richard  had 
known  many  women,  made  love  to  several,  been 
adored  by  several  more,  but  through  it  all  had  regard- 
ed this  as  the  one  permanent  devotion.  He  thought 
Alison  the  best  woman  in  the  world. 

Alison  had  always  loved  Richard,  and  had  never 
been  in  love.  This  sounds  a  paradox,  but  is  never- 
theless a  truth.  They  had  lived  side  by  side  for 
years,  but  neither  had  ever  penetrated  to  the  spirit 
of  the  other.  There  had  not  been  even  an  eye-glance 
between  the  two  souls.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  possession 
of  so  ethereal  an  element  had  even  become  known  to 
Richard.  Nevertheless,  they  swore  eternal  love,  a 
kingdom  that  hearts  and  bodies  have  no  share  in. 
Perhaps  it  is  true  that  the  soul  comes  into  its  king- 
dom only  across  the  valleys  of  sorrow  and  up  the 
mountains  of  pain.  Alison  had  suffered,  the  suffering 
of  love,  of  loneliness,  of  humiliation,  but  she  had 
suffered  alone.  Across  her  love  for  Richard  had 
blown  no  wind  of  distrust,  had  come  no  shadow  of 
fear. 

Richard  held  her  long  in  his  arms  before  they 
parted.  "  My  wife !"  and  "  Husband !"  were  breathed 
between  them.  Long  afterwards  Alison  remembered 
that  she  alone  that  morning  spoke  a  word  of  the 

258 


A  Rainy  Morning 

future.     Richard  lived  in  the  passionate  and  joy- 
ful present. 

Down  below  in  the  great  living-room  around  the 
roaring  fire  was  a  scene  of  mild  perturbation  on 
account  of  a  telegram.  The  minister  had  wired  of 
an  accident  on  his  way  to  the  Grand  Central,  which 
made  him  miss  his  train. 

"  He  should  have  been  asked  to  come  up  a  day 
earlier." 

"  By  all  means.  These  Adirondack  trains  are  none 
too  frequent." 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  about  it  ?" 

"  Wire  him  to  come  up  this  evening." 

"  Such  bad  luck !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Edward. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  unsuperstitious  Mrs. 
John.  "  The  flowers  will  keep  beautifully." 

"And  the  breakfast?" 

Mrs.  John's  face  fell. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Colonel  Hollister,  "  there  is 
Enoch  Holme." 

"What  of  it?" 

"  He's  a  minister." 

"  Alison  and  Richard  married  by  a  mountain 
parson!"  said  young  Mrs.  Ned,  warming  her  long, 
blue-veined  hands  over  the  fire.  "  That  would  be 
such  an  anachronism.  That's  not  the  word,  but  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

"  It  would  be  beautiful,"  said  Mrs.  John,  after 
due  deliberation.  "  Enoch  is  so  fine  and  wholesome. 
Alison  likes  these  mountain  people." 

"  As  part  of  the  scenery,"  suggested  Mrs.  Ned, 
languidly. 

"  Enoch  Holmes  is  a  man  worth  knowing,"  said 
the  Colonel,  reprovinglv. 

"259 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  Well,  why  don't  some  one  send  for  him  ?"  asked 
executive  Mrs.  John.  "  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  and 
Alison  is  beginning  to  dress." 

"  Shall  I  mention  the  matter  to  Alison,  my  dear  ?" 
asked  the  Colonel. 

"  No,  John.  It  would  only  disturb  her  unneces- 
sarily. I  believe  in  keeping  a  bride  out  of  the  pre- 
matrimonial  fuss,  and  Alison  has  been  so  sweet  and 
tranquil." 

The  circle  broke  up. 

"  Is  Alison  ever  anything  but  sweet  and  tranquil  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Edward,  to  whose  high-strung,  excitable 
temperament  Alison  was  balm. 

"  The  dear  child  will  be  so  pleased,"  said  Mrs. 
John,  self-gratulatorily,  already  forgetting  that  the 
original  suggestion  had  not  been  her  own. 

She  moved  stoutly  towards  the  kitchen,  that  stretch- 
ed beyond  a  series  of  passages  and  swing-doors. 

Ysobel  Ruddle  came  in  from  a  walk,  glowing- 
eyed  and  short-skirted,  in  time  to  hear  the  last  words. 
Ned  Hollister  alone  remained,  nursing  an  Egyptian 
cigarette.  She  caught  him  by  the  lappel. 

"  What  will  the  dear  child  be  pleased  about  ?"  she 
demanded.  "  I  always  know  by  the  tone  of  voice 
who's  being  discussed." 

"At  being  married  by  Enoch  Holme,"  laughed 
Richard's  cousin,  lighting  a  cigarette  for  Ysobel. 

Ysobel  whistled,  and  threw  the  lighted  cigarette 
into  the  fire. 

"  I  say,"  he  remonstrated. 

"  I  call  it  confounded  bad  luck,"  mused  Ysobel, 
"  to  assist  at  one's  own  funeral." 

Mrs.  Ruddle,  despite  outward  bluntness,  was  a 
person  of  much  inward  finesse. 

260 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A    Thankless    Task 

IF  the  soul  never  gives  over  longing,  nothing  that 
is  desired  is  impossible.  The  soul  will  have  none 
of  the  blank  wall  of  denial,  and  beats  itself  against 
the  stone  face  with  endless  iteration  of  I  can,  I  will. 
As  everything  in  the  world  is  subjective,  events  only 
the  coming  home  to  ourselves  of  ourselves,  and  mat- 
ter merely  the  shadow  of  idea,  the  impossible  does 
not  exist  except  for  the  folded  hands  of  resignation 
or  the  unseeing  eyes  of  despair.  Before  the  out- 
stretched hand  the  beloved  object  hovers.  Though 
one  cannot  grasp  it,  it  is  there,  and  the  very  contin- 
uance of  desire  proves  the  persistence  of  possibility. 

Enoch  had  been  many  times  around  the  dreadful 
circle  that  those  travel  who  begin  at  the  starting- 
point  of  remediless  pain.  Then  he  had  stepped  out 
of  his  circle  upon  the  straight  road  of  daily  monot- 
onous work,  only  to  find  himself  again  in  another 
dreadful  circle  that  was  still  the  same,  treading  out 
again  the  useless  wine-press  of  the  bitter  grapes  of 
pain.  He  would  have  given  much  not  to  have  been 
invited  to  the  MacDonald  -  Hollister  wedding,  but, 
having  been  asked,  he  grit  his  teeth  and  prepared 
his  mind  to  go. 

Pulling  out  a  stump,  as  is  well  known,  is  one  of 
201 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

the  most  laborious  and  temper-trying  pursuits  known 
to  man,  involving  the  most  tremendous  effort  with 
the  least  discernible  result.  For  this  reason  it  was 
perhaps  well  suited  to  Enoch's  mind  on  the  morning 
of  October  15th,  representing  concretely  an  abstract 
process. 

Daddy  and  Azzy  had  long  been  plotting  together 
an  ingenious  mechanical  contrivance  to  be  known 
as  the  Azrael  Infallible  Stump  Extractor.  So  far, 
it  had  existence  only  on.  paper,  and  Enoch  was  work- 
ing with  the  time-honored  aids  of  a  rope,  a  chain, 
and  a  pair  of  oxen.  Daddy,  in  overalls  and*  a  sou'- 
wester, sat  on  the  kitchen  porch,  stimulating  by  oc- 
casional advice.  The  rain  was  pouring  down  from 
a  low,  misty  sky.  In  the  ploughed  garden  -  patch 
the  wet  had  brought  out  vividly  the  umbers  and 
ochres  of  the  ploughed  garden  soil.  One  row  of 
still  upstanding  fodder-corn  showed  a  bleached  tan 
almost  like  stacks  of  faded  sunlight.  Beyond,  one 
looked  into  the  black  heart  of  the  little  spruce  wood. 

"  Gee  haw !     Pull  there,  Spotty !" 

Enoch's  resonant  voice  filled  the  morning. 

"  Seems  as  if  you  might  fetch  the  rope  a  little 
mite  to  the  eastward,"  called  Daddy,  standing  up 
in  his  excitement. 

"  I  am  going  to  loosen  the  soil  a  bit  deeper," 
Enoch  called  back,  applying  himself  vigorously  to* 
the  spade.  The  meek,  great  animals  blinked  white 
eyelashes  above  melting  eyes  as  they  waited  for 
the  master.  What  did  life  mean  to  them  who  could 
only  see  a  hand's-breadth  ahead  into  the  future  of 
fodder  and  labor?  It  was  likely  that  even  dinner 
was  a  no  more  definite  anticipation  than  rain  to  the 
unthinking  flower.  Yesterday's  toil  in  the  ploughed 

262 


A  Thankless  Task 

lands  was  more  remote  than  a  pre-incarnation. 
Sararose  opened  an  upper  window  in  the  house  and 
slammed  back  a  green  blind.  Her  long  hair  fell  in 
smooth  waves  that  for  color  and  lustre  were  like 
the  iron-tinted  soil  cut  by  the  plough-share. 

"  Enoch,  Enoch,  aren't  you  going  to  get  ready  ?" 

"  For  what,  dear  ?" 

"  For  the  wedding,  of  course." 

"  I  am  getting  ready." 

Enoch  tossed  away  a  huge  spadeful  of  black, 
fibrous  earth  from  the  tree's  roots.  The  swift  rain 
whipped  his  eyes  as  he  looked  upward  towards  his 
sister. 

"  These  roots  must  come  out  before  I  go." 

Sararose  laughed.  "  How  absurd !  Must  roots 
always  be  pulled  out  before  marriages  ?" 

She  shut  the  window,  and  went  back  to  the  agree- 
able process  of  arraying  herself  for  the  festivity. 
The  garnet  dress  was  laid  upon  the  bed,  with  its 
soft,  bright  fluting  of  silk  under  the  hem,  the  first 
silk  balayeuse  known  to  Elk  Mountain,  and  a  dis- 
tinct source  of  joy  to  Sararose  every  time  she  heard 
its  rustle  around  her  ankles. 

Sararose  and  Daddy  together,  inspired  by  a  col- 
ored plate  in  a  fashion  journal,  had  devised  a  bib- 
like  effect  in  filmy  green  for  the  bodice  of  the  gar- 
net gown.  The  same  color  frothed  out  again  above 
Sararose's  long,  delicate  hands  and  lighted  up 
charmingly  the  green  tints  in  her  eyes.  Sararose 
had  thought  the  chiffon  almost  too  startling  in  color 
and  too  flimsy  to  combine  with  cloth  until  assured 
by  Alison  that  it  was  correct.  Alison  had,  more- 
over, shown  her,  for  her  further  strengthening,  a 
party  gown  of  June's  with  decorations  of  fur  and 

263 


The   Strength  of  the   Hills 

lace.  Ever  since  then  it  had  been  Sararose's  dream 
to  see  herself  whirling  through  a  waltz  in  Richard 
Hollister's  arms,  with  reddish  fur  outlining  her 
bare  bosom,  and  cobwebby  lace  draped  bewitchingly 
and  floating  out  behind  her  to  impossible  lengths 
over  shimmering  under-glints  of  sea-green. 

When  Sararose  had  first  learned  from  Enoch  of 
the  approaching  marriage,  her  horizon,  that  had  for 
some  weeks  grown  broader  and  brighter,  shut  down 
on  her  with  leaden  opaqueness.  But  now,  with  the 
New  York  winter  glowing  at  the  end  of  her  vista, 
the  world  was  illimitably  large,  and,  somehow  or 
other,  Richard  Hollister  seemed  woven  into  the 
strands  of  her  dreams,  or  other  young  men,  unmar- 
ried, with  dented,  delightful  chins.  Even  Nixon, 
with  the  hatchet  -  face  and  light,  unsmiling  eyes, 
seemed  a  future  possibility  of  pleasure. 

Out-of-doors  Enoch  still  struggled  with  the  huge 
pine  stump  that  must  yield  to  him  before  he  went 
to  Camp  Hollister.  Through  the  dim  swathings  of 
rain  his  figure  was  exaggerated  to  almost  heroic 
size,  and  might  have  stood  in  one  of  its  momentary 
attitudes  of  fierce  endeavor  for  "  A  Struggler  with 
Destiny."  The  eloquent  lines  of  his  figure  express- 
ed mighty  effort;  the  fixity  of  his  face  spelled  hope- 
fulness. In  the  vacancy  of  this  rain  -  blotted  field 
he  seemed  pitted  against  an  invisible  force.  Enoch 
had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  stump  must  be  sub- 
dued. How  cunningly  mental  and  spiritual  proc- 
esses are  abetted  by  the  physical.  He  was  pulling 
out  by  its  roots  something  from  his  heart  that  had 
taken  firmer  seat  there  than  the  great  pine  in  the 
soil.  The  pine  had  been  growing  some  hundred 
years  or  more,  laying  hold  on  earth  with  its  many 

264 


A  Thankless  Task 

hungry,  clutching,  underground  fingers.  This  lit- 
tle, brief,  intangible,  sudden  thing  that  had  laid  its 
fingers  upon  his  heart — was  it,  too,  the  result  of  cen- 
turies of  dark  deliberation,  of  elemental  pains? 

He  would  have  it  out,  like  the  roots  of  the  tree, 
and  he  would  go  to  Camp  Hollister  with  a  fearless 
front.  The  wind  began  to  shuffle  in  the  spruce-trees, 
and  an  expiring  gust  of  rain  blew  like  a  torrent  of 
tears  across  his  face.  A  great  raft  of  cloud  floated 
apart  overhead  and  let  down  a  murky  illumination 
from  the  still-veiled  sun. 

Spotty  and  Roan  strained  once  more  at  the  newly 
adjusted  rope.  They  strained  and  panted. 

"I  declare  to  't,"  chirruped  Daddy,  "she's  be- 
ginnin'  to  start." 

He  took  advantage  of  the  interlude  between  show- 
ers to  leave  his  shelter  and  approach  the  scene  of 
conflict.  Like  many  other  disinterested  persons,  he 
liked  to  be  in  at  the  finish,  when  his  sense  of  per- 
sonal responsibility  was  in  no  measure  diminished 
by  previous  non-participation.  He  flicked  an  inef- 
fectual twig  at  Spotty's  steaming  flanks. 

"  Gee  haw !    Whew !    We've  done  it,  Enoch  !" 

The  uprooted  stump  lay  clawing  up  to  the  light. 
Daddy  kicked  some  dirt  into  the  yawning  hole. 

At  this  juncture  the  man  from  Camp  Hollister 
rode  in  across  the  ploughed  land  and  hailed  Enoch. 
He  handed  him  a  letter  from  the  colonel.  Enoch 
wiped  his  muddy  hands  on  his  wrinkled,  mud-col- 
ored trousers  and  opened  the  envelope.  They  wanted 
him  to  perform  the  ceremony.  Minister  not  able 
to  come.  He  must  marry  young  Hollister  and  Ali- 
son ?  He  must  m — m — m —  No,  no.  Fool  that 
you  are!  The  roots  have  been  pulled  out. 

265 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  the  messenger.  "  Tell  Colonel 
Hollister  I  will  be  there  in  season." 

He  explained  to  his  father  the  message  from  the 
Camp. 

"  Bully  for  you !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with 
pride.  "  And  you  will  get  a  rattling  fee !" 

Enoch  strode  to  the  kitchen  porch.  He  wondered 
if  Alison  knew. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
To   Have    and    to    Hold 

ALISON  did  not  know.  Mrs.  Hollister,  clasping 
about  Alison's  neck  the  pearls,  a  gift  from  Richard's 
father,  told  her  that  Enoch  Holme  was  to  marry 
them.  Alison  gave  a  little  start. 

"  There,  my  dear.  These  pearls  have  come  un- 
clasped again.  As  soon  as  you  are  in  town  you  must 
go  to  Tiffany's  and  have  the  spring  changed." 

"  They  are  beautiful,"  said  Alison.  "  Enoch 
Holme !" 

"  And  so  becoming  to  you.  Yes,  Enoch  Holme. 
He  will  do  it  very  impressively,  I  am  sure.  You  are 
not  displeased  ?" 

"  Oh  no.    It  is  too  late  for  that." 

"  For  what  ?    Oh,  for  the  lace  scarf,  dear." 

"  No,  dear ;  I  will  not  wear  the  lace,"  said  Alison, 
gently.  "  It  is  exquisite,  but  the  tulle  and  the  pearls 
and  these  flowers  are  enough." 

"  Alison,  your  dress  is  so  plain,"  said  Mrs.  John, 
half  reproachfully. 

"  She  is  a  dream,"  said  Mrs.  Edward,  in  trium- 
phant contradiction. 

"  It  wouldn't  do  on  any  one  else,"  June  remark- 
ed in  a  low  voice  to  her  mother,  as  Alison's  crepy 
garment  trailed  down  the  broad  stairs  in  front  of 
them,  "  but  on  Alison  it  is  fetching." 

267 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

Mrs.  Hollister  was  satisfied,  for  June,  on  such 
matters,  was  acknowledged  authority. 

"  Wait  one  minute,  my  dear.  What  is  that  red  in 
your  hair  ?" 

"  Please  never  mind,"  said  Alison,  patting  Mrs. 
Hollister's  hand  and  smiling  a  little.  "  They  are 
the  berries  Mary  picked  in  the  rain." 

Alison  lifted  her  eyes  but  twice  during  the  cere- 
mony. The  flowers,  the  people,  the  familiar  room, 
with  its  unfamiliar  air,  she  had  no  more  conscious- 
ness of  them  than  if  she  had  been  led  blindfolded 
into  the  middle  of  night.  With  the  first  "  I  do  "  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  meet  the  great,  impersonal,  re- 
ligious gaze  of  Enoch's  eyes,  blue  as  a  blue-stone. 
When  she  placed  her  cold  fingers  in  Richard's  hand, 
she  encountered  the  brown,  liquid  look,  and  smiled 
ever  so  faintly.  Some  musicians  began  to  play 
doomfully,  and  all  was  over. 

Little  Mary  walked  mournfully  out  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, unheeded  by  the  jubilant  congratulators. 
Quite  calmly  she  preserved  upon  her  face  a  curious 
smile  as  she  passed  Mrs.  Ruddle  in  the  hall.  Mrs. 
Ruddle  looked  like  a  full-breasted  tropical  bird  in  a 
cloth  gown  that  just  missed  being  burnt  orange  to 
escape  a  rosy  tan.  "  Where're  you  off  to,  midget  ?" 
Ysobel  asked. 

Mary  laid  hold  upon  herself  heroically,  and,  still 
smiling  the  curious  smile,  shut  the  door  softly  be- 
hind her. 

"  It  would  not  be  nice  for  zem  to  know  I  am  go- 
ing to  cly,"  she  thought.  She  secluded  herself  in 
a  broom  -  closet,  where  she  sat  among  the  dish  -  pans 
and  comforted  her  passionate  heart  by  abundant 
wails. 

268 


To  Have  and  to  Hold 

"  Oh,  Alison,  Alison  !  I  never  knowed  being  mal- 
lied  was  like  zat !  I  never  knowed !  I  never  knowed !" 

The  clouds  lifted  during  the  wedding  breakfast. 
Dandy  and  Fantine  stood  gleaming  and  curveting 
at  the  steps.  Alison  and  Richard  galloped  away 
through  a  showery,  glittery  forest  and  under  a  rac- 
ing sky. 

"  I  feel  good,"  said  Fantine  to  Dandy. 

"  I  feel  happy,"  said  Dandy  to  Fantine. 


Boofe  Hfl 


CHAPTER  XXV 
Bodies   and    Souls 

IT  had  been  a  lonely  winter  for  Enoch  in  camp, 
hemmed  in  by  the  spruce  wilderness  and  white  walls 
of  snow.  Now  it  was  March,  the  winter  skidding 
and  hauling  practically  done,  the  new  mill  at  a  dead 
stand.  There  was  no  chance  to  get  the  logs  down 
to  the  Elk  Mountain  mills  till  the  river  drives  were 
on.  Azzy  was  not  in  camp  this  winter,  for  Enoch's 
increased  income  as  foreman  and  jobber  had  made 
it  possible  for  the  younger  brother  to  commence  his 
training  at  a  school  of  technology.  As  for  Enoch 
himself,  what  with  Sararose's  music,  and  her  New 
York  expenses,  and  Azzy's  education,  his  own  pros- 
pects of  theological  study  and  work  among  the 
churches  seemed  further  than  ever  from  being  real- 
ized. 

Enoch  awoke  early,  as  was  his  habit.  The  men 
about  him  were  asleep,  bunked  on  their  rude  cots, 
innocent  of  sheets  and  pillows.  Some  of  them,  by 
preference,  lay  on  mere  shake  -  downs  of  spruce 
branches,  covered  by  sacking,  Enoch,  as  he  quietly 
dressed,  looked  about  him  on  the  faces  of  the  sleep- 
ing lumbermen.  Hard  faces  they  were,  lined, 
weather-beaten,  gaunt,  but  the  closed  eyelids  hid 
the  shrewd,  cautious  look,  the  quiet  penetration,  that 
s  273 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

is  characteristic  of  the  men  of  the  North  Woods. 
Years  of  toil  at  lumbering,  of  life  in  the  forest,  had 
sealed  their  faces  with  the  stamp  of  the  craft.  Ev- 
ery department  of  lumbering  life  requires  this  nicety 
of  vision,  this  accuracy  of  calculation. 

Through  the  dense,  unlumbered  forest  the  cruiser 
goes,  in  late  autumn,  when  the  hardwoods  blaze 
among  the  sombre  evergreens,  or  on  snow-shoes  in 
early  winter,  when  he  walks  like  an  Indian  over  the 
deep,  fresh-fallen  snow,  with  all  the  little,  flat  fir- 
branches  feathered  and  the  juniper  berries  iced 
like  confectionery.  His  must  be  the  enduring  frame 
to  weather  those  wintry  solitudes,  the  long  vision  to 
sight  the  distances  from  tree-top  or  ridge,  the  sturdy 
judgment  to  calculate  on  values  in  the  virgin  for- 
est, the  cheerful  heart  to  whistle  as  he  goes,  pack- 
basket  on  back  and  glass  in  hand,  a  day's  journey 
from  the  curling  smoke  of  camp  or  lean-to. 

The  jobber  in  early  autumn,  again  with  long 
vision  and  sturdy  judgment,  maps  out  the  log  and 
tote  roads  for  the  winter  camp,  directing  his  chop- 
pers right  and  left  as  they  "  fall "  the  trees  and 
clear  the  underbrush  in  preparation  for  the  ice- 
packed  travel-worn  routes  that  are  to  intersect  the 
wondering  wilderness  with  man's  traffic  and  indus- 
try. 

Sawyer,  skidder,  and  swamper,  each  in  his  voca- 
tion, with  narrowed  eyes  and  thoughtful  lips,  casts 
about  him  with  forethought,  calculating  a  tree's  fall 
and  its  leap  forward,  building  his  skidway  in  the 
snow,  or  guiding  his  great  horses,  with  the  loaded 
sled  behind,  around  the  sharp  curves.  Even  upon 
the  lad  who  snakes  the  cull  logs  or  the  strays,  with  a 
horse  and  a  chain,  pulling  in  and  out  between  the 

274 


Bodies    and    Souls 

unbeaten  ways  of  the  wood,  one  may  see  this  eager 
strain  of  the  eyes,  the  look  of  eyes  long  habituated 
to  unravelling  leafy  intricacies,  fronting  icy  glares, 
and  peering  through  the  dust  and  steam  and  whir 
of  the  mill. 

Enoch  went  the  length  of  the  bunks  in  the  up- 
stairs sleeping-room,  looking  in  turn  at  each  sleeper 
as  he  lay  in  the  unconscious  revelation  of  character 
that  sleep  or  death  vouchsafes.  The  trivial  lines, 
the  surface  shades  of  expression,  are  smoothed  away, 
and  only  the  deep-seated  manifestation  of  the  soul 
remains.  It  resides  not  in  line  or  contour,  but  more 
subtly,  more  broadly,  more  intangibly,  speaks  and 
gives  not  the  lie.  On  this  man's  face  was  the  half- 
smile  of  humorous  contempt  with  which  he  viewed 
the  world.  On  this  man's  the  deep  trouble  of  a  nat- 
ure in  ferment.  By  day  he  was  wag  and  good  fel- 
low. This  man  lay,  his  arm  outside  the  gray  blank- 
ets and  his  strong  fingers  clinched  in  a  strenuous 
grasp  of  nothing.  The  pursed  lips  and  gathered 
eyes  denoted  the  same  eager  greed.  Upon  one  face, 
a  lad's,  new  to  the  camp,  lay  the  shadow  of  the 
pathos  of  youth.  Between  the  closed  lids  glistened 
the  moisture  of  tears.  The  boy's  thick-fingered,  lov- 
ing hands  held  each  other  under  the  potency  of  some 
yearning  dream.  Enoch  stood  last  before  him,  and 
again  his  old  passion  for  souls  seized  him.  It  was 
with  him  as  strong,  as  elemental,  as  possessing,  as 
that  of  sex  or  motherhood. 

Souls!  As  he  looked,  each  man's  soul  rose  and 
stood,  a  vague,  restless,  wistful  thing,  by  the  sleep- 
ing body  where  was  its  dwelling.  There  were  hands 
outstretched,  but  the  feet  were  motionless  and  the 
soul's  lips  were  mute.  Slave  or  master? 

275 


The  Strength    of  the    Hills 

"  Thou  art  mine,"  says  Body,  huskily,  "  and  in 
my  prison  pent.  When  I  choose,  songful;  when  I 
bind,  mute.  I  am  for  thee  eyes  and  ears  and  feet. 
Thou  steppest  not  forth  from  thy  small  chamber 
one  day's  journey  till  I  do  set  thee  free." 

"  Thou  are  mine,"  whispers  Soul,  "  my  slave  to 
do  my  bidding,  while  I  sit  here  in  quiet  upon  my 
throne.  All  up  and  down  the  earth  do  I  drive  thee, 
and  thou  but  fulfillest  my  will,  not  thine  own.  For 
my  sins  art  thou  scourged,  and  in  the  end  will  I 
cast  thee  aside  like  a  worn-out  garment." 

"  I  do  deny  thee  utterly,"  says  Body,  huskily ; 
"  when  I  lay  me  down  for  the  long  sleep,  thou  hast 
no  longer  habitation  nor  name.  Thou  flickerest  out 
like  a  candle-flame  when  the  candle  is  extinct." 

"  Thou  art  mine,"  whispers  Soul.  "  Thou  the 
candle  and  I  the  flame.  Thou  livest  but  for  my  sus- 
tenance. I  burn  thee  and  consume  thee  till  thou  art 
guttered  out,  and  I  have  mounted  from  thy  dead 
socket  to  the  Source  of  Light." 

Exults  the  fettered  Soul,  stretching  upward  still 
arms,  a  winged  Nike  chained  to  a  pedestal  of  clay. 

"  Why,  if  the  Soul  can  throw  the  flesh  aside 
And  naked  on  the  air  of  Heaven  can  ride — " 

Souls  of  the  insane,  souls  of  the  idiot,  souls  of  the 
guilty,  are  ye  indeed  masters  and  the  bodies  slaves? 
It  is  certain  that  behind  the  vacant  eyes  of  the  idiot 
and  his  wide,  glassy  smile  there  resides  a  soul  that 
is  not  idiot,  but  is  slave  to  the  body,  and  cannot 
speak.  The  soul  of  the  idiot  knows,  understands, 
waits,  and  some  day  will  stand  side  by  side  with 
the  soul  of  the  wise,  and  God  shall  call  them  broth- 

276 


Bodies    and  Souls 

ers.  So  also  has  the  maniac  who  raves  within  his 
cell  a  soul  that  is  calm,  for  the  soul  does  not  go 
mad.  How  do  such  souls  pass  the  long  imprison- 
ment, I  wonder,  till  their  hideous  jailer  opens  to 
them  the  door  ?  They  are  forbidden  even  to  look 
out  of  windows,  for  the  windows  are  flesh,  and  the 
jailer  has  the  key.  But  sometimes  when,  in  my 
walks  abroad,  I  have  passed  such  hideous  cells,  I 
fancy  I  hear  a  voice,  little  and  clear,  behind  the 
empty  laughter,  or  the  awful  scream,  and  I  say, 
"  It  is  the  soul  calling  to  her  kind ;  but  how  shall  I 
answer  or  go  to  her,  for  the  walls  are  thick  and  the 
jailer  has  the  key?" 

Soul  of  the  guilty,  who  hast  sinned  the  sins  of  the 
flesh  so  that  he  is  seared  and  blackened  with  the 
burning,  are  you  master  and  not  slave,  or  is  it  in- 
deed your  sins  that  have  branded  him  with  red-hot 
irons  ? 

u  Ah,  no,  no,"  says  the  soul  of  the  fleshly  guilty. 
"  I  have  not  sinned,  nor  am  I  branded  with  red- 
hot  iron,  no  more  than  the  soul  of  the  idiot  stares 
or  the  soul  of  the  maniac  gibbers.  These  things 
have  befallen  my  flesh,  but  not  me.  I  am  so  far 
within,  so  far  within,  that  events  cannot  touch  me, 
except  the  events  clothed,  like  myself,  with  invis- 
ibility and  immortality." 

Invisible,  immaterial,  immortal,  how  may  the 
soul  sin  ?  Yet  that  morning,  in  the  gray  of  dawn, 
did  the  souls  of  the  world  call  unto  Enoch  to  be 
saved. 

"  Save  us  from  the  body  of  our  sin,"  they  cried. 

And  the  souls  of  the  sleeping  lumbermen  stood 
by  their  bodies,  thin,  white,  wistful,  innocent  as 
babes,  and  opened  their  mouths,  and  spake  unto 

277 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

Enoch.  Their  feet  were  set  upon  sapphire  stones, 
and  their  bodies  as  the  body  of  heaven  for  clearness. 
They  were  white  for  the  harvest,  as  Enoch  saw 
them. 

"  I  will  put  in  my  sickle,"  he  said.  "  I  will  reap 
and  garner  and  take  home  to  the  Master." 

But  the  time  will  come  when  the  lumbermen 
awake  and  their  souls  slink  back  like  whipped  dogs 
to  their  kennels,  their  cries  silenced.  The  lumber- 
men will  eat  and  drink  and  make  merry,  wash  their 
shirts  and  play  cards,  and  tramp  to  their  homes 
again,  a  roll  of  bills  in  their  pockets  and  their 
clothes  on  their  backs.  Who  says  that  the  soul  is 
master?  Is  it  the  body  or  the  soul  that  the  blaster 
of  Souls  should  teach  ?  Enoch  aspired  to  be  a  mas- 
ter of  souls.  In  the  deepest  sense  all  that  is  not 
soul  is  body,  the  grosser  forms  of  intelligence,  the 
joys  and  sorrows  that  perish,  yes,  even  the  finite 
will  and  brain,  they  are  flesh  to  that  impalpable 
something,  the  Soul,  which  is  pure. 

So  grieved  the  Apostle,  understanding  this  truth, 
that  the  churches,  preaching  always  the  depravity 
of  souls,  distort. 

"  Now  if  I  do  that  I  would  not,  it  is  no  more  I 
that  do  it,  but  that  sin  that  dwelleth  in  me.  I  find 
then  a  law  that,  when  I  would  do  good,  evil  is  pres- 
ent with  me.  For  I  delight  in  the  law  of  God  after 
the  inward  man.  But  I  see  another  law  in  my  mem- 
bers warring  against  the  law  of  my  mind  and  bring- 
ing me  into  captivity.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  who 
shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this  death  ?" 

The  tent  -  maker  preached  the  sinlessness  of  the 
Soul.  The  souls  themselves  stood  up  and  preached 
to  Enoch  that  winter  dawn.  He  heard,  but  would 

278 


Bodies  and   Souls 

not  listen,  for  it  was  he  who  would  fain  preach  to 
them. 

"  Save  me  from  the  body  of  this  death,"  said  the 
boy's  soul,  pointing  with  transparent  finger  to  the 
sleeping  head. 

Enoch  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  The 
atmosphere  hung  heavy  with  unheeded  voices.  The 
intense  yearning  he  felt  was  but  spiritual  magnet- 
ism unmated — an  electric  battery  surcharged,  with 
the  current  broken,  a  flame  that  the  wind  blew  this 
way  and  that,  for  the  fire-place  was  rude. 

"  Love,  love,  love/'  his  nature  called. 

"  Souls,  souls,  souls,"  he  translated. 

Now  it  must  not  be  thought  that  there  are  no  men 
in  the  world  whose  work  it  is  to  be  preachers,  nor 
that  there  are  no  souls  to  be  saved.  Enoch's  soul 
must  save  itself,  and  may  only  save  itself  by  obey- 
ing the  inner  call.  To  obey  the  inner  call  is  to  live 
out  one's  destiny,  and  to  live  out  one's  destiny  is 
to  save  one's  soul.  To  strangle  the  inner  call,  to 
balk  one's  destiny,  is  to  lose  one's  soul.  Life  and 
soul  not  in  harmony,  soul  the  slave,  not  the  master, 
the  body  of  death,  that  is  perdition.  Life  and  soul 
in  harmony,  soul  the  master,  the  body  of  heaven, 
that  is  salvation.  If  one's  calling  is  to  save  souls, 
then  to  save  souls  is  to  save  one's  self.  It  is  a  means, 
not  an  end.  Enoch  regarded  it  as  an  end.  It  was 
the  means  of  his  own  salvation. 

One's  destiny  may  be  to  achieve  failure.  If  by 
that  failure  self-expression  is  more  sincere  and  full, 
then  success  is  to  be  dreaded.  As  some  one  has  wise- 
ly said,  "  I  would  rather  fail  in  doing  what  I  want 
to  do  than  succeed  in  doing  what  I  don't  want." 

Enoch's  genius  was  for  loving,  strong,  rich,  pas- 
279 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

sionate,  pure;  loving  was  his  soul's  meat  and  drink. 
When  he  bent  above  the  sleeping  lumbermen,  he 
loved  them.  When  he  yearned  over  Sararose's 
sins,  he  loved  her.  He  would  deny  himself,  starve 
himself,  to  feed  a  love.  But,  ah,  what  a  warp  had 
false  doctrine  given  to  the  splendid  web  of  this  soul, 
so  that  passionate  loving  became  passionate  domina- 
tion, and  glorious  pity  became  condemnation ! 

His  love  for  Alison  might  have  been  the  saving 
of  his  soul.  The  love  of  a  man  and  a  woman  is 
religion,  is  God. 

"I  know  not  thy  soul  from  thy  body, 
Neither  our  love  from  God." 

But  that  love  was  turned  inward  upon  itself  and 
became  a  consuming  fire.  He  had  it  by  the  throat 
and  was  strangling  it. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  forbidden  love.  The 
very  expression  is  a  contradiction. 

Two  things  there  are  not — a  guilty  soul  and  a  for- 
bidden love. 

Enoch  forbade  his  own  love,  but  it  would  not  re- 
main forbidden.  He  put  murderous  hands  upon 
it,  and  did  not  know  that  he  had  murdered  the  body 
of  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
The    Buried     Brook 

HE  went  down  the  roughly  built  steps  to  the  dog- 
room  below,  where  signs  of  the  last  night's  jollifica- 
tion still  remained. 

Saturday  night  at  the  camp  is  "  Nigger-Night," 
for  the  same  mysterious  reason  that  fried  pork  is 
White  Lion,  and  soup  is  Gul  McGulligan,  affection' 
ate  epithets  of  familiarity,  by  contrast  with  which 
the  ordinary  terms  are  cold  and  stilted. 

The  men's  shirts  hung  around  the  central  stove, 
where  they  had  spread  them  to  dry  after  Nigger- 
Night's  tubbing. 

Enoch  stepped  across  to  the  cook-shanty.  A  huge 
fire  glowed  like  a  great  eye  in  the  dusky,  low-browed 
room.  He  walked  circumspectly,  for  behind  the 
horse-blanket  curtain  Eli  and  his  wife  slept.  The 
long  oilcloth-covered  table  was  set  with  the  breakfast 
service,  tin  plates  and  cups,  and  great  piles  of  bread, 
cut  the  night  before,  with  superb  disregard  to  fas- 
tidious requirement.  The  coffee  stood  mixed  in  the 
pot  on  the  wood-pile,  and  two  frying-pans  held  their 
heaps  of  sliced  potatoes  in  readiness.  At  Enoch's 
plate,  recognizable  always  by  his  own  knife  and  fork, 
which  he  had  brought  with  him  from  home,  lay  a 
letter.  It  must  have  arrived  the  night  before,  by  mes- 

281 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

senger  from  Spriggs's  Corners,  after  he  had  gone  to 
bed.  Enoch  put  some  sticks  into  the  fire,  and  made 
some  coffee  for  himself  in  a  small  sauce-pan  before 
he  opened  his  letter.  It  was  dawning  outside,  but 
the  small,  low  windows  of  the  shanty  admitted  little 
light,  lambrequined  as  they  were  by  icicles  above 
and  pillared  by  snow-banks  below.  By  the  light  of 
a  kerosene-lamp  Enoch  read  his  letter.  It  was  from 
Thomas  Mayhew,  with  whom  he  had  been  in  oc- 
casional correspondence  since  the  previous  summer. 
The  two  men  had  deeply  impressed  each  other.  Now 
Mayhew  wrote  that  a  settlement  house  was  being  start- 
ed in  Little  Quebec,  a  French-Canadian  colony  on 
the  lower  East  Side,  and  they  wanted  a  head-worker 
with  some  knowledge  of  the  patois.  There  would 
be  a  small  but  stated  salary,  and  he  suggested  that 
Enoch  should  enter  upon  the  work. 

"  You  know  I  am  no  believer  in  your  theology," 
he  wrote,  "  but  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  our  cause 
here  on  the  East  Side  will  be  helped  materially  just 
now  by  a  little  orthodoxy,  and  I  don't  think  you  will 
harm  it  spiritually.  Your  manhood  is  what  I  want, 
your  theology  will  save  us  with  the  bishop." 

This  was  indeed  a  prospect  to  drink  down  with 
the  morning's  coffee.  A  chance  for  definite,  practical 
work,  for  acquaintance  with  complex  city  conditions, 
and  all  the  experience  it  would  bring,  a  chance  to 
have  a  standing  in  his  own  vocation.  In  fact,  he 
saw  opened  up  before  him  that  for  which  every 
ambitious  man  longs,  recognition  by  his  equals. 
Without  it,  the  consciousness  of  success  is  negatory. 
Enoch,  who  was  a  very  proud  man,  told  himself  fre- 
quently that  the  opinion  of  the  world  mattered  lit- 
tle. At  those  times  when  his  lonely  life  sank  deeply 

282 


The   Buried  Brook 

into  his  spirit,  and  when  in  his  bunk  at  night  he 
read  books,  or  thought  thoughts  that  were  to  be  the 
substance  of  future  sermons,  he  deemed  it  a  humilia- 
tion to  accept  the  world's  estimates.  But  the  pride 
of  solitude  soon  crumbles  before  a  little  concrete  rec- 
ognition. 

When  Enoch  stepped  outside  the  shanty,  the  won- 
der of  the  dawn  burst  upon  him  with  unaccustomed 
glory.  It  was  a  new  revelation  every  day,  from  the 
dusky,  low,  warm,  wood-smelling  camp  kitchen  to  the 
silver  freshness  of  morning,  sparkling  among  the 
evergreens. 

As  the  man's  figure  appeared,  the  blue-jays  began 
to  scream,  not  unmusically,  in  expectation  of  break- 
fast, and  a  gray  moose-bird  flew  one  branch  lower 
with  keen  anticipation. 

The  March  snow  was  glazed  like  delicate  blue 
porcelain  with  the  chill  of  the  night,  and  all  the  little 
trees  were  sugared  with  tinsel  frost.  The  trunks  and 
branches,  veining  already  to  shadowy  purple  or  crim- 
son with  the  blood  of  spring,  were  seamed  with  glit- 
tering runlets,  frozen  from  the  drip  of  the  previous 
day's  melting.  The  March  had  been  a  mild  one  in 
the  woods — such  feathery  snows  and  balmy  suns  be- 
neath the  spruces  as  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart 
of  a  health-seeker. 

A  pale,  clear  beryl  color  was  in  the  arch  of 
the  unclouded  sky,  except  in  the  east,  where  be- 
tween the  trees  the  newly  arisen  sun  burst  with  a 
flood  of  creamy  light,  a  cataract  overflowing  in 
foam  through  the  silhouetted  spruce  and  hemlock 
that  barred  the  low  radiance.  A  sapphire  sparkle 
of  powdered  gems  glanced  through  the  converging 
aisles.  The  crystal  stillness  was  like  a  cool  hand 

283 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

on  a  fevered  forehead,  was  like  the  smile  of  a  vir- 
gin babe. 

The  fortunate  one  who  lives  in  the  country,  the 
wise  and  fortunate  one  who  is  awake  and  out-of-doors 
at  dawn,  will  find  himself  heir  to  a  treasure-house 
that  has  crumbled  away  and  vanished  before  the 
late  sleeper  raises  his  heavy  head  from  his  pillow. 
Whether  it  be  spring-time,  with  the  madness  of  wak- 
ing birds  in  the  orchard,  and  the  milk  of  morning 
mist  washing  the  meadow;  or  summer,  with  the  gos- 
samer of  spider-webs  a-glisten,  and  day-lilies  folded, 
gray  with  dew;  or  winter,  and  the  red  sun  reflected 
in  a  myriad  looking-glasses  of  ice  and  snow,  it  is 
all  one — a  revelation,  a  bath  for  the  soul. 

Enoch  started  off  on  snow-shoes  for  a  long  morn- 
ing's tramp  through  his  wilderness,  if  indeed  snow- 
shoeing  can  be  called  tramping.  Every  form  of  loco- 
motion has  its  peculiar  quality,  its  communicated 
effect  upon  temper  and  temperament.  The  rollick- 
ing insouciance  of  a  horseback  gallop  could  never 
be  induced  by  a  bicycle  spin.  The  brisk  ardor  of  the 
bicycle  is  in  every  way  different  from  the  sweep  and 
glide  of  the  skates  on  ice  and  the  remote  exhilaration 
they  bring.  The  dreamy  languor  of  the  canoeist, 
letting  the  world  and  all  its  sordidness  slide  away 
unregarded  from  under  his  velvet  keel,  could  never 
be  felt  by  the  sailor,  bounding,  bird-like,  with  heart- 
leaps  of  unthinking  joy.  In  snow-shoeing  there  is 
an  uplift,  a  lightness,  a  magnificence,  that  ordinary 
walking  knows  not. 

One  is  like  a  mortal  cast  in  heroic  mould,  or  like 
those  who  walk  in  dreams,  lightly  treading  the  air 
just  above  the  heads  of  wondering  earth-bound  fel- 
lows. So  the  mood  that  snow-shoeing  brings  to  a 

284 


The  Buried  Brook 

sympathetic  temperament  is  one  of  uplift,  of  purity, 
of  strength.  Enoch  followed  an  abandoned  logging 
road,  away  and  away  up  the  winding  mountain-side, 
miles  of  exquisite  snowy  solitude,  of  glitter  and  shim- 
mer and  shadow,  a  sky  deepening  to  heavenly  tints 
of  blue,  clouds  blushing  to  palest  rose,  and  beaten 
like  cream  above  the  crisp  sparkle  of  blue  snow, 
tree-patterns  that  lay  pencilled  like  etchings,  or  ap- 
plied like  purple  lace,  as  the  sun  mounted  higher, 
and  over  all  a  bath  of  subtle,  sharp,  absolute  si- 
lence, not  the  thick,  mysterious  silence  of  night,  nor 
the  gauzy,  prickly  silence  of  summer  twilight,  but 
the  clear,  intoxicating  silence  of  a  wintry  forest 
dawn.  There  is  in  the  world  no  silence  like  it. 

Half-way  up  the  mountain  was  a  little  lake,  set 
lonely  in  its  encircling  alders  and  mountain  maples, 
unvisited  even  in  summer  except  by  the  occasional 
trapper  or  cruiser,  boiling  his  kettle  by  its  brink. 
The  level  surface  was  white  with  snow,  across  which 
a  few  deer-tracks  went.  The  thin  layer  of  topmost 
snow  was  lifted  and  blown  by  the  wind  in  circles 
and  semicircles  of  powdery  dust,  so  delicate  that  they 
were  like  visible  breath.  Where  the  playful  wind 
let  the  snow  fall  again,  it  made  serrate  leaf -edges 
and  flowery  scallops  on  the  glaze  underneath,  like 
frosted  bas-relief  on  silver.  Here  and  there  the  snow 
had  melted  and  frozen  again  smoothly  in  circular 
looking-glasses,  that  shone  like  polished  metal. 

The  beauty  of  these  woods  to  Enoch  was  their 
comradeship,  a  great  heart  that  beat  against  his  own. 
To  be  silent  with  them  was  richer  than  the  most  in- 
timate speech.  It  was  to  be  understood.  Around 
a  curve  in  the  ever-curving  road  which  he  follow- 
ed, striding  with  light,  great  steps  over  the  drifts 

285 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

that  piled  it  on  either  side,  he  came  upon  a  glimpse 
through  opened  hemlocks  of  a  little  hill  ahead,  bare  of 
trees,  its  rounded  contour  gentle  as  a  woman's  breast 
against  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky.  Why  did  the 
thought  of  Alison  Hollister  come  to  him  that  mo- 
ment ?  He  had  put  aside  his  love  for  her.  He  had 
conquered  it,  he  said.  Nevertheless,  he  stopped  at 
the  thought,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heart 
stopped  beating. 

Below,  in  its  delectable,  snow-walled  hollow,  lay 
Witchhopple  Brook,  in  summer  the  fairest  of  spirits, 
shy  as  a  thought,  wild  as  woman,  and  laughing  won- 
derfully like  a  child  who  has  not  learned  to  speak. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  realm  of  finite  knowledge 
that  thrills  more  with  a  sense  of  infinite  mystery  than 
the  limpid  laugh  of  the  little  child  who  sits  and  plays 
with  a  sunbeam,  or  his  own  pink  toes.  So,  in  sum- 
mer, Witchhopple  Brook  laughed  and  laughed,  and 
baffled  all  question.  It  ran  away  over  the  stones  with 
white  feet  twinkling,  and  then,  under  the  shade  of 
great  trees,  and  veiled  with  maiden-hair  ferns,  it 
made  for  itself  a  pool  of  meditation  where  it  could 
lie  and  be  amber-colored,  and  reflect  the  tallest  trees 
and  a  bit  of  the  topmost  sky,  and  think  about  eter- 
nity. 

All  this  was  like  a  picture  in  Enoch's  mind.  He 
walked  like  a  man  with  shut  eyes,  seeing  only  the 
gold-girdled  pool  where  he  and  the  woman  had  stood 
and  the  sunset  leaf  had  fallen  on  her  grape-vine 
hair.  He  reached  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  There  lay 
the  little  Witchhopple  like  a  form  under  a  winding- 
sheet.  The  sheets  were  drawn  smoothly  over  its 
brown,  dimpled  lucency.  It  was  whiteness,  stillness, 
death ! 

286 


The   Buried  Brook 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

His  own  life's  joy  lay  there  under  the  winding- 
sheet,  the  joy  he  had  seen  for  a  moment  in  the  gold- 
girdled  pool  when  it  reflected  the  white  cloud.  There 
had  been  infinity  in  the  pool.  Hope  is  infinity,  an 
endless  road  stretching  splendidly  away  to  the  land 
beyond  the  west.  Despair  is  a  dead  wall. 

The  buried  brook  was  Enoch's  joy. 

"  Oh,  my  God !"  he  said  again,  realizing  that  mo- 
ment two  things:  that  he  would  love  Alison  Hoi- 
lister  to  his  life's  end;  that  she  was  another  man's 
wife.  His  snow-shoes  sank  a  foot  into  the  soft  spring 
snow,  just  on  the  brink  of  the  sheeted  pool.  The 
morning  sun  came  down  through  the  opening  and 
spilled  like  rosy  wine  into  the  lap  of  the  hollow,  but 
the  brook  was  still.  The  two  Things  stood  beside 
him,  like  jailers  beside  the  condemned.  They  had 
their  gyves  ready  for  the  poor  wretch  who  might 
imagine  himself  free.  Enoch  took  out  the  worn  and 
flattened  pocket-book.  He  held  the  folded  leaf  in 
his  hand,  twirling  it  a  moment.  Then  he  bent  down 
and  impressed  its  image  delicately  and  carefully  on 
the  sheet  of  the  pool.  As  he  did  so,  he  heard,  beneath 
its  shroud,  the  little  brook,  purling  and  laughing  by 
itself.  It  was  the  radiant,  unbaptized  soul  of  Ali- 
son that  called  to  him. 

"  I  will  go  to  New  York,"  he  said.  "  What  have 
I  to  fear?  I  will  save  her  soul,  by  the  mercy  of 
God!" 

The  mercy  of  God  and  his  own  desire  were  one. 

The  old  maple-tree  leered  at  him  through  its  glis- 
tening fissure  of  a  smile,  as  he  climbed  the  ravine 
and  left  the  hollow.  Enoch  smiled  back  benignly, 
remembering  their  conversation  of — how  long  ago ! 

287 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

Then  the  return  walk  began.  But  the  return  has 
never  the  charm  of  the  setting-forth.  It  is  the  peach 
with  the  bloom  rubbed  off,  the  wine  after  the  sparkle 
has  effervesced,  the  secret  that  has  been  revealed. 

The  sun  had  mounted  high  into  the  blue,  and  the 
soft  drip,  drip  of  the  ice  from  the  branches  filled  the 
woods  like  mysterious  footsteps.  The  writing  on  the 
snow  had  vanished,  and  not  a  twinkle  of  the  life 
of  the  underwoods  peeped  from  windfall  or  thicket. 
Far  withdrawn  in  elemental  reserve  were  the  shy, 
wild  animals — fox,  rabbit,  squirrel,  wood-partridge, 
grouse,  and  deer  —  while  the  genial  sun  streamed 
through  the  bare  purple  branches,  filtered  down  like 
gold  dust  between  the  dark  -  green  balsam  -  fir  and 
spruce,  and  melted  deeper  yet  the  narrow  sled-ruts 
in  the  logging  road. 

The  wild  purity  of  the  winter  woods,  their  silver 
freshness,  were  in  his  spirit  still  when  his  train 
steamed  into  the  blackness  of  the  Harlem  tunnel  and 
finally  pulled  up  in  the  great,  multitudinous  arcade 
of  the  Grand  Central  at  night. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
The     Rhinegold 

THE  winter  had  gone  uneventfully  enough  for 
Sararose  in  New  York.  She  lived  in  the  same  house 
with  Rathbun's  sister,  who  was  a  miniature-painter 
and  a  person  of  strenuous  vivacity  and  frail  phy- 
sique. They  were  just  east  of  Broadway,  in  the 
Forties,  convenient  for  them  both  to  studios,  re- 
citals, Carnegie  and  Mendelssohn  Hall.  The  intri- 
cacy of  city  streets  had  resolved  itself  to  some  de- 
gree of  simplicity.  Sararose  could  now  discriminate 
at  a  glance  between  a  Columbus  and  Lexington  car, 
and  no  longer  let  Sixth  Avenue  lead  her  astray  from 
Herald  Square.  The  Twenty-third  Street  crossing 
she  took  mechanically,  and  extras  cried  at  night  no 
longer  dilated  her  eyes  with  vague  horror.  Shop- 
windows  could  be  passed  in  a  hurry,  and  she  knew 
where  to  look  for  the  musical  notices  in  the  daily 
papers.  She  had  not  had  time  or  money  for  much 
amusement,  but  the  theatre  and  opera  had  become 
familiar  to  her  from  critiques,  bill  -  boards,  and 
boarding-house  talk.  She  was  beginning  to  chafe 
under  the  bondage  of  her  promise  to  Enoch,  al- 
though as  yet  there  had  been  no  urgent  temptation  to 
break  it.  She  had  not  observed  any  eager  proces- 
sion of  cavaliers  hastening  to  do  homage  at  her  door. 
T  280 


The   Strength   of  the  Hills 

Two  or  three  callow  musical  geniuses  had  picked  up 
acquaintance  with  her  in  the  studio  of  her  teacher, 
and  one  of  them  had  even  made  bold  to  call  upon 
her,  his  violin  under  his  arm.  He  wore  his  hair 
rather  long  over  a  badly  starched  collar.  By  a  mer- 
ciful provision  of  destiny,  it  so  happens  that  long  hair 
generally  performs  the  beneficent  office  of  concealing 
imperfect  linen. 

Miss  Rathbun  disliked  serious  opera,  being  addict- 
ed to  the  Casino  and  Weber  &  Fields,  whither  she 
went  occasionally  with  her  brother  when  he  happen- 
ed to  fall  heir  to  other  people's  tickets.  Rathbun  and 
Nixon  had  a  den  together  in  the  purlieus  of  Washing- 
ton Square.  Of  society  Sararose  had  little.  Richard 
Hollister  she  had  seen  but  once,  when  he  called  one 
evening  with  his  wife.  Busy  people's  hospitality, 
exuberant  in  intention  during  a  summer  of  leisure, 
boils  down  during  a  town  winter  to  one  virtuous 
call  and  a  sprinkling  of  cards.  It  is  difficult  to  bring 
people  into  one's  life  who  do  not  naturally  belong 
there,  and  the  kindest  heart  does  not  always  go  with 
the  longest  memory.  The  Hollisters  had  the  sincerest 
purpose  of  befriending  Enoch  Holme's  talented  little 
sister,  but  after  they  had  seen  her  safely  settled  in 
dull  respectability  on  Fortieth  Street,  under  Miss 
Rathbun's  protecting,  if  eccentric,  wing,  their  sense 
of  duty  was  appeased. 

Sararose  found  that  loneliness  was  as  possible  in 
a  big  city  as  at  the  foot  of  Elk  Mountain  in  the  shad- 
ow of  young  birch-trees.  The  cumulative  loneliness 
of  a  dozen  weeks  of  empty  evenings  was  on  her  to- 
night as  she  sat  in  her  small  room  and  heard  from 
below  the  soul-rending  voice  of  a  young  tenor.  Next 
to  her  was  a  young  man,  with  whom  she  had  what  is 

290 


The  Rhinegold 


termed  a  "  bowing "  acquaintance.  He  was  an 
assistant  interior  decorator  for  a  Fifth  Avenue 
firm. 

On  the  other  side  of  her  was  a  small  room,  now 
vacant,  the  door  of  which  stood  open  by  day,  dis- 
playing a  swept  but  not  garnished  interior  of  board- 
ing-house austerity.  A  colored  print  of  a  certain 
French  actress,  laughing  over  her  shoulder,  was  the 
only  superfluous  article. 

There  came  a  tremendous  knock  at  the  door,  which 
so  took  her  breath  away  that  her  scarcely  audible 
"  Come  in  "  had  to  be  tried  a  second  time  before  it 
was  heard.  Nixon  entered,  with  concession  to  fashion 
in  the  shape  of  a  scarlet  necktie  and  white  knit 
gloves.  He  was  followed  by  Mrs.  Kuddle,  resplen- 
dent in  sables  and  English  violets,  and  the  fierce- 
bearded  Kathbun. 

"  Where  is  Margery  ?"  demanded  Nixon  of  the 
room  at  large,  his  eyes  returning,  with  apparently 
accidental  intent,  to  Sararose. 

"  She  went  out  with  a  friend  —  I  don't  know 
where." 

Sara  rose's  loneliness  was  increased  by  the  fact 
that  Miss  Rathbun  and  she  were  supremely  indiffer- 
ent to  each  other's  comings  and  goings.  She  would 
have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  confide  and  be  con- 
fided in  to  the  last  detail,  for  Sararose  formed 
intimacies  with  all  the  engaging  readiness  of  shal- 
low natures.  But  Miss  Rathbun,  having  been  about 
the  world  a  bit,  and  made  many  acquaintances  that 
had  had  their  day,  had  come  to  the  point  where 
one  wearies  of  constantly  new  beginnings.  Her  rat- 
tling vivacity  was  more  forbidding  than  the  severest 
silence.  Enoch's  warm-hearted  interest  in  his  sister's 

291 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

affairs,  irksome  as  it  had  often  proved,  now  seemed 
a  lost  heaven. 

Ysobel  was  struck  by  the  lonely  glitter  of  large, 
sea-colored  eyes.  At  this  same  moment  Nixon,  for 
the  first  time,  noticed  the  resemblance  between  her 
and  Botticelli's  women.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  this 
idea  that  when  Ysobel  asked  him  for  the  time,  he 
replied,  vaguely : 

"  It's  gone,  vou  know." 

"  What's  gone,  Nixie  ?" 

"  My  Botticelli — my  watch,  I  mean." 

"  Pawned  again,  I'll  wager.  Never  mind — what 
are  we  here  for?" 

"  For  my  sister,"  said  Rathbun. 

"  No,  for  Miss  Holme,"  said  the  painter,  his  pale 
eyes  fastened  upon  the  girl's  exquisite  head. 

"  Sararose,  come  with  us  to  the  opera,"  Mrs.  Rud- 
dle added. 

"  We  wanted  to  have  Margery,"  added  Rathbun, 
blandly,  "  because  there  was  one  more  seat  in  our 
row." 

"  Because  I  wouldn't  go  along  with  all  you  men 
unchaperoned,"  Ysobel  interrupted.  "  Sararose,  will 
you  come?" 

The  manner  of  the  invitation  had  hardly  been  com- 
plimentary, but  this  was  not  the  reason  that  Sara- 
rose  hesitated. 

"  Where  are  your  bonnet  and  shawl  ?"  said  Nixon, 
impatient  for  once,  investigating  vaguely  the  decep- 
tive handles  of  the  folding-bed. 

"  I'm  not  sure — I  don't  believe  I'd  better,"  an- 
swered Sararose,  standing  and  toying  with  Ysobel's 
sable-tails.  The  perfume  of  the  violets  came  to  her 
like  tropical  persuasion. 

292 


The  Rhinegold 


"  Oh,  but  you  must,"  said  Nixon,  coming  to  the 
other  side  of  her,  and  beginning  to  think  her  less 
like  a  Botticelli,  and  more  like  a  stupid  little  coun- 
try girl.  "  Mrs.  Ruddle  refuses  us,  if  you  do." 

"  Impudence !"  laughed  Ysobel.  "  That's  not  the 
reason  we  want  you.  Go  down  on  your  knees  to  her, 
Kitty,  and  ask  her  like  a  gentleman." 

"  Thou  blessed  damozel !"  burst  out  Rathbun,  roll- 
ing upward  his  poet-eyes. 

Sararose  smiled,  blushed,  and  gave  Rathbun  her 
hand  as  he  rose. 

"  There's  a  very  good  reason  why  I  can't  go,"  she 
said,  slowly,  the  last  little  flutter  of  resistance  making 
a  brave  show. 

"  What— what  ?" 

Sararose  would  have  died  rather  than  expose  the 
mortifying  reason — the  promise  to  her  sorrow-mind- 
ed brother. 

"It's  the  'Rheingold'  to-night,"  said  Ysobel. 
"  Have  you  heard  it  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Sararose,  reluctantly,  more  than  ever 
mortified  at  her  ignorance  of  this  as  well  as  all  other 
operas,  and  wondering  if  she  could  conceal  such 
wholesale  ignorance  in  the  event  of  her  yielding. 

"  Rhine  maidens  in  the  water,  gnomes,  under- 
ground barbaric  music,  profound  allegory,  splendid 
voices,  Schumann-IIeinck,  Dippel,  Bispham,"  said 
the  painter-person,  seductively. 

"  Oh,  dear !"  sighed  Sararose. 

"  But  we  really  mustn't  linger.  Dick  will  be 
swearing  at  us  down-stairs." 

"  Is — is  Mr.  Ilollister  down-stairs  ?"  asked  Sara- 
rose,  with  lightning  surmise  and  a  leap  at  the  heart. 

"  Yes  " — Ysobel  was  equally  adept  at  lightning 
293 


The  Strength  of  the    Hills 

surmises  where  affaires  de  cceur  were  concerned. 
"  You  shall  have  him  to  yourself  all  the  evening." 

"  Wife  gone,  enjoying  himself.  As  the  man  ask- 
ed Willy  R.  at  Atlantic  City,  '  Here  on  pleasure  or 
with  your  wife  ?" 

"  For  shame,  Rathbun !"  exclaimed  Ysobel. 
"  Richard's  wife  is  Alison !" 

"  I  beg  pardon."  Rathbun's  tone  became  grave 
on  the  instant.  "  Alison  stands  alone." 

"  Wrell  ?"     Ysobel  turned  to  Sararose. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  is  not  time  for  me  to  dress." 
Thus  Sararose  consented,  and  broke  her  promise  to 
Enoch. 

"  The  story  of  the  Rhinegold,"  said  Richard  to 
her,  as  they  left  the  house — "  do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  No — tell  me,  please  ?" 

"  I'm  rather  vague  about  it  myself.  It's  the  first 
of  the  cycle  of  the  '  Nibelungenlied.'  I  don't  care 
for  much  besides  the  voices  and  the  orchestra,  I'll 
admit." 

"  What  is  the  Rhinegold  ?" 

"  I'm  blessed  if  I  know.  The  Rhine  maidens 
guarded  it,  down  in  the  water — apples  of  the  Hes- 
perides  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Made  a  ring  out  of 
it.  First  Alberic  got  it,  then  Wotan,  then  the  giant 
— I  forget  his  name.  Brought  everybody  trouble, 
but  every  one  wanted  it.  You  literary  chap,  ex- 
plain it — eh,  Nixie  ?" 

Nixon  hated  explanations.  They  were  slow  poison 
to  him,  but  he  could  not  resist  Sararose's  appealing 
eyes. 

"  It's  allegory — Rhinegold — gold,  gold,  hard  and 
cold — the  ring — its  power  increased  to  the  sixth  de- 
gree, with  all  that  the  skilful  use  of  gold  makes  pos- 

294 


The    Rhinegold 

sible.  Alberic,  the  Nibelung —  who  stands  for  the 
sordid  crafty  passion  for  gain  —  outwits  the  ele- 
ments, the  Rhine  maidens  mysterious.  Barters  all 
love,  all  possibility  of  human  happiness,  for  Rhine- 
gold." 

"  Look  out  for  the  car,  Nixon !'  Rathbun  jerked 
him  back  from  before  the  Broadway  cable. 

"  They're  having  a  great  turnout  at  the  Empire 
to-night,"  remarked  Ysobel.  "  It's  the  premiere  of 
Arburton's  new  play." 

Richard  and  Ysobel  stopped  to  speak  with 
some  ladies  who  got  out  of  a  carriage  before  the 
theatre. 

"  I  saw  it  in  London  last  summer.  It's  very 
pretty." 

"  Pretty !"  exclaimed  the  daughter.  "  Why,  mam- 
ma, it's  pitiful,  horrible !" 

"  Mrs.  Ruddle,  how  well  you're  looking !"  exclaim- 
ed the  elder  lady,  with  scarcely  veiled  hostility. 

Nixon  got  the  place  by  Sararose's  elbow,  continu- 
ing the  explanation  in  his  own  peculiar  fashion, 
watching  the  currents  come  and  go  in  the  girl's  sea- 
pool  eyes. 

"  So  it  comes  to  them  all — the  same  problem,  love 
or  gold,  gold  or  love.  Wotan  makes  the  sacrifice,  love 
for  gold,  and  the  face  of  the  earth  is  darkened.  Erda, 
our  mother-earth,  the  elemental  humanity,  the  good 
old  animal  in  us,  warns  him — 

"  How  does  it  end  ?" 

"  Fasolt,  the  giant,  heaps  Freya's  image  as  high 
in  gold  as  she  is  in  life,  and  lets  her  go.  And  the 
ring  fills  the  chink  that  hides  the  last  glance  of  her 
eyes." 

"  But  it  doesn't  end  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ruddle  to  Sara- 
295 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

rose,  as  they  crossed  the  street.  "  Fasolt  is  killed  by 
his  brother,  and  loses  both  love  and  gold." 

"  Love  and  gold !"  laughed  Richard.  "  Both  are 
worth  having.  What's  the  use  of  deciding  between 
them?" 

They  went  in  at  the  Fortieth  Street  entrance,  and 
began  climbing  the  long  stairs. 

"  You  don't  have  to,"  retorted  Nixon,  with  a  vi- 
cious emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

"  NOT  you,"  said  Richard,  lightly.  Nixon  had 
his  hand  at  Sararose's  elbow,  conventionally  "  assist- 
ing "  after  the  proper  fashion  of  escorts.  "  Here  is 
love  and  gold  for  you,  all  in  one."  He  looked  smil- 
ingly at  the  girl's  wealth  of  ruddy  gold  hair. 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you,"  said  Rathbun,  "  that  she 
would  make  a  capital  figure  for  your  mural  com- 
position." 

"  I  have  found  it  out  for  myself,"  said  Nixon, 
listlessly. 

They  threaded  the  aisle  and  took  their  seats. 
They  could  look  down  on  broken  semicircles  of  gal- 
leried  rows,  dotted  full  of  the  black-and-whiteness 
of  humanity  in  the  mass.  It  was  just  before  the  cur- 
tain, and  the  house  was  in  twilight.  Up  underneath 
the  roof  and  opposite  them  hung  the  clusters  of 
electric  lights,  like  little  burning  apples. 

A  sharp-featured  woman  in  a  plaid  waist  behind 
them  was  contesting  her  seat  with  a  husky  German 
Jew. 

"  These  family-circle  people  are  a  study,"  said 
Richard  to  Sararose,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  needn't  fleer.  I'm  a  f  amily-circler,"  said 
Rathbun.  "  It's  my  natural  habitat." 

The  twilight  made  a  sudden  drop  to  night,  stirring 
296 


The    Rhinegold 

and  fluttering  about  them  ceased,  and  away  down  in 
the  centre  of  the  house  bluish  mists  began  to  roll 
upward.  In  the  vague  understream  three  shapes 
glimmered  and  floated,  fish  or  mermaidens,  with  wav- 
ing arms  and  slim,  opaline  bodies.  The  music  stream- 
ed out  in  waves  of  sound,  and  then  the  first  Rhine 
maiden  sang.  Sararose  wanted  to  ask  a  hundred 
questions.  She  was  bewildered,  entranced.  Laugh- 
ter that  ebbed  and  flowed  with  the  music,  the  Mbe- 
lung's  passionate,  sordid  basso,  and  elemental  sense  of 
the  causes  of  things  revealed,  and  a  toying  with  pri- 
mal passions.  The  last  glittering,  laughing  water- 
thing  had  slipped  away,  the  Rhinegold  gleamed  and 
was  stolen,  and  the  cloudy  curtain  fell  and  rose,  and 
slowly  the  flowery  mead  by  Valhalla  blossomed  to 
golden  splendor.  There  was  no  intermission,  a  re- 
straint under  which  Richard  visibly  chafed.  He 
scribbled  little  notes  and  comments  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope,  and  passed  them  to  Sararose.  If  he  had 
been  in  a  box  he  would  have  whispered,  but  he  re- 
spected the  religious  gravity  of  the  family  circle. 
When  Wellgunda  sang: 

"Denn  was  nur  lebt  will  lieben, 
Meiden  will  keiner  die  Minne," 

he  wrote :  "  Do  you  understand  ?  '  Whoever  lives 
will  love;  no  one  will  fly  from  love.'  The  naughty 
little  Rhine  maiden  was  cruel.  Don't  be  cruel,  too." 
Sararose  was  swept  along  on  a  sea  of  tumultuous 
sound.  The  acting  and  the  spectacle  dazed,  but  the 
music  intoxicated.  She  was  not  yet  sufficiently  so- 
phisticated to  enjoy  the  theatrical  complement  to 
mere  music.  The  measured  movements  of  the  actors, 

297 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

their  unaccountable  silences  and  pauses,  the  rhyth- 
mical embraces,  all  were  to  her  distorted,  unintel- 
ligible. 

"  Isn't  Leoge  superbly  Frenchy  ?"  wrote  Richard, 
to  the  immense  disgust  of  a  trio  of  aesthetic  school- 
girls, who  heard  the  scratching  of  his  pencil,  and 
looked  round,  with  disapproval  on  their  superior 
young  faces.  "  The  twitch  of  his  mantle,  and  the 
airy  legs !" 

He  was  singing  the  delicious  praise: 

"  Fiir  Weibes-Wonne  und  Werth." 

"  A  woman's  wonder  and  worth — he  has  sought 
the  wide  world  over,  but  there  is  nothing  to  equal  a 
woman's  wonder  and  worth." 

The  curtain  fell  to  the  thoughtless  applause  that 
drowned  the  last  crashes  of  the  orchestra.  The 
school-girls  and  the  sharp  -  featured  woman  hissed 
the  applauders  to  silence.  Then  the  singers  were 
called  out,  singly,  in  couples,  and  rows.  People  began 
to  put  on  their  hats,  ladies  hunted  up  their  gloves  and 
handkerchiefs  under  the  seats,  the  school-girls  put 
away  their  beloved  opera-glasses,  and  with  a  long 
breath  of  mixed  delight  and  fatigue  Sararose  awaken- 
ed to  the  crowd. 

"Well?"  asked  Richard. 

"  I  should  like  to  shut  my  eyes  and  hear  it  all  over 
again." 

"  Let's  go  and  eat,"  said  Ysobel,  briskly.  "  Wag- 
ner gives  me  that  gone  feeling." 

"  Remember,"  said  Richard,  as  they  descended  the 
endless  iron  stairs,  "  this  is  only  the  prologue.  The 
best  is  yet  to  come." 

298 


The    Rhinegold 


"  Ah,"  sighed  Sararose,  vaguely,  wondering  if 
he  meant  to  take  her  again. 

"  The  best  is  yet  to  come,"  he  repeated,  unaware 
how  tender  his  voice  was  and  how  much  more  it 
meant  than  he  did.  Sararose  was  a  pretty  child,  and 
he  liked  her  misty,  sea-green  look.  There  was  in  it 
the  appeal  and  the  mystery  that  belong  to  musical, 
pleasure-loving  eyes.  They  were  different  from  the 
firm,  brown  candor  of  Alison's  eyes.  Richard  could 
have  said  with  Wotan,  "  Wandel  und  Wechsel."  He 
had  reached  the  point  where  he  enjoyed  a  little 
change.  They  mounted  the  steps  under  the  awning 
to  the  little  chop-house,  familiar  to  the  profession, 
just  off  Broadway.  The  place  was  crowded,  as  it  is 
generally  at  that  hour.  They  had  either  to  separate 
or  to  wait  the  chance  of  an  empty  table.  They  chose 
the  former  alternative,  and  Richard  promptly  de- 
cided that  Sararose  and  Nixon  should  be  the  couple 
to  dine  a  deux.  He  was  too  recently  married  to 
wish  to  be  seen  with  a  beautiful  girl  at  midnight  over 
a  bird  and  a  bottle.  There  was  no  knowing  whom 
they  might  run  up.  against  at  Nocq's. 

"  Here's  a  table  for  two,  Nixie,"  he  said,  pulling 
out  a  chair  for  Sararose,  and  standing  back  to  let  the 
pair  pass  him  to  the  little  table  by  the  window. 

Richard  was  man  of  the  world  enough  to  manage 
a  little  situation  adequately,  but  Ysobel  checkmated 
him. 

"  We  three,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her  most  artless 
looks,  and  plucked  Rathbun  by  the  sleeve.  A  waiter 
had  three  places  ready  where  a  lonely  fourth  was 
just  at  the  finish  with  Camembert  and  Tokay. 
Rathbun  recognized  by  the  limpidity  of  Ysobel's 
smile  that  she  had  a  motive,  and  respected  it  by  obey- 

299 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

ing  her.  Nixon  somewhat  resented  Ysobel's  master- 
fulness. At  other  times  he  had  found  it  piquant. 
It  was  partly  sheer  mischief,  partly  her  inborn  in- 
stinct for  a  little  liaison.,  that  induced  Ysobel's  strat- 
egy, which  occupied  but  a  moment.  Richard  found 
himself  divested  of  his  overcoat  by  the  officious 
waiter  of  the  little  table. 

"  I  like  to  see  them  together,"  Mrs.  Ruddle  re- 
marked. 

Nixon  regarded  critically  Sararose's  shining  head, 
bell-buoyant,  crowning  her  slender  figure  in  its  fleur- 
de-lis  swathings,  and  Richard,  opposite,  with  the 
massive,  shapely  brow  and  the  smiling,  dimpled  chin. 
His  hair,  where  his  hat  had  pressed,  made  a  splendid 
waving  line  across  his  forehead. 

"  They're  distinguished.  Do  you  see  those  stage- 
folk  stare  ?"  Rathbun  said. 

"  The  stout  one  is  talking  about  Zaza  hair."  Nixon 
sat  back  in  his  chair,  disgusted. 

"  It's  Dick  that  takes  the  little  one's  eye,"  said 
Ysobel,  interpreting  their  lips  cleverly,  while  she 
douched  her  oysters  with  various  condiments. 

Richard  did  not  cry  long  over  spilled  milk,  but. 
rapidly  fell  into  humor  with  the  situation ;  Sararose 
and  champagne  were  a  not  half  -  bad  combination, 
and  under  the  unwonted  influence  of  wine  and  other 
strange  things  her  spirits  effervesced  like  the  Veuve 
Clicquot  she  was  drinking.  She  said  wittier  things 
than  she  had  ever  before  known  she  was  capable  of. 
Repartee  flew  back  and  forth  like  sparkles  in  the 
wind.  All  through  the  room  came  little  gusts  of 
mirth  and  the  tinkle  of  glasses. 

They  leaned  elbows  on  the  little  table,  and  looked 
across  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  the  air  seemed  vi- 

300 


The    Rhinegold 

brant  with  intimacy.  Sararose  did  not  quite  remem- 
ber her  own  words  which  she  had  just  spoken,  but 
they  must  have  been  pleasing,  for  Richard  laughed 
back;  nor  was  she  distinctly  conscious  what  he  was 
saying,  for  once,  when  she  thought  she  had  listened, 
he  said,  "  Don't  you  think  so  ?"  and  she  replied 
"  Yes,"  quite  unaware  of  what  had  preceded.  Then 
he  laughed,  and  she,  not  knowing  what  he  laughed  at, 
laughed  too,  and  he  touched  her  hand  that  lay  on  the 
table,  and  said,  "  It's  a  compact,  then  ?" 

Laughter  came  now  more  easily  than  speech.  She 
floated  up  and  down  irresponsibly,  and  through  a  sort 
of  haze  came  a  voice  far  away  that  must  be  Rich- 
ard's. Now  some  one  buttoned  her  coat,  and  she  was 
waving  off  somewhere,  floating  up  and  down,  dimly 
conscious  of  buoyant  feet  that  would  not  touch 
ground,  and  a  door  that  seemed  miles  away  and  then 
brushed  her  arm  abruptly. 

They  had  only  a  few  steps  to  go  to  the  familiar 
boarding-place.  She  was  aware  of  a  very  firm  hand 
on  her  arm.  and  wondered  what  she  was  saying  and 
if  any  one  knew  that  her  feet  could  not  find  the 
earth. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Mrs.  Euddle.  "  I'll  wait 
below  while  you  and  Kitty  go  up  with  her." 

In  the  little  unoccupied  room  next  Sararose's  a 
light  burned. 

"  You  will  sleep  well  to-night,"  said  Richard  to 
her  as  she  sank  upon  the  couch. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  sleepy,"  she  answered,  with  stren- 
uous effort. 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  get  up  in  the  morning," 
advised  Rathbun,  in  a  brotherly  fashion,  as  they 
closed  the  door  behind  them. 

301 


The  Strength   of  the   Hills 

One  of  the  pleasing  features  of  the  first  stage  cf 
intoxication  is  its  subjectiveness.  The  swimming 
feet  and  the  hazy  vision  are  known  to  the  subject 
alone. 

"  A  little  exhilarated,"  remarked  Rathbun. 

"  It's  mightily  becoming  to  her,"  said  Richard, 
as  they  rejoined  their  friends  in  the  hall. 

The  occupant  of  the  neighboring  room  was  awake 
and  watching.  When  the  voices  had  ceased  and  tho 
front  door  was  closed,  he  knocked  imperiously  on 
Sararose's  door.  He  had  to  knock  a  second  time, 
more  imperiously,  more  loudly,  before  he  was  an- 
swered. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  weakly,  too  lazy  to  wonder 
who  her  late  visitor  might  be. 

Enoch  entered  and  saw  his  young  sister  half  fallen 
across  the  couch,  her  bright  hair  dishevelled,  stream- 
ing over  her  shoulders  from  under  her  hat,  her  fin- 
gers vainly  struggling  to  unfasten  the  clasp  of  her 
belt. 

The  sight  of  him  was  like  a  cold  wave  broken  over 
her  head.  She  sat  upright.  The  unevenly  anchored 
hat,  with  its  weight  of  purple  velvet,  fell  unnoticed 
to  the  floor. 

"  Sararose !"  he  exclaimed,  in  stern  amazement. 

She  fell  forward  and  clasped  his  knees.  "  Don't 
be  angry  with  me.  Don't  be  angry,"  she  wailed. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
The  Tribunal 

ENOCH  drew  her  upward  to  her  feet,  neither 
roughly  nor  tenderly.  The  aloofness  of  his  touch 
made  Sararose  shiver  with  apprehensiveness.  He 
had  not  touched  her  so  since  a  certain  time  she 
vividly  remembered,  when,  a  little  child  of  seven, 
she  had  followed  a  circus  down  the  road  to  Sar- 
anac.  He  had  found  her  trotting  along  in  the 
dust,  barefoot  and  hatless,  her  red  hair  flying,  and 
had  led  her  home  by  the  hand  in  silence.  Sararose 
remembered  now  how  she  had  felt  the  reproof  in  his 
fingers,  and  had  slipped  her  hand  out  of  his,  petu- 
lantly, only  to  have  him  resume  his  grave,  gentle 
grasp  —  a  wood-god  leading  home  a  truant  dryad. 
Now  she  remembered  that  invincible,  prophetic 
grasp  as  Enoch  raised  her  to  her  feet.  He  was  not 
in  the  mood  to  be  touched  by  her  suffering.  His  re- 
vulsion of  mind  from  her  wrong-doing  was  too  com- 
plete. There  would  be  an  awful,  restrained  denun- 
ciation, and  then — what  ?  The  wrath,  the  contempt, 
the  denunciation  she  might  live  through  and  even 
be  happy  the  next  morning,  but  what  else?  There 
might  be  more  permanent  consequences.  Enoch  was 
given  to  demonstrating  the  theory  of  consequences. 
It  was  one  of  his  most  unpleasant  theories,  and  one 

303 


The    Strength  of  the   Hills 

the  application  of  which  seemed  too  often  under  his 
personal  control. 

He  met  his  sister's  melting,  frightened  gaze  with 
stern  candor. 

"  Enoch,  I  have  been  doing  nothing.    I — I — " 

He  drew  her  to  the  oval  glass  that  hung  upon  the 
wall  ahove  the  cretonne-covered  chiffonier. 

"  Look  there !"  He  towered  behind  her,  with  both 
hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  their  eves  met  in  the 
queer  mirror.  "  Look  at  yourself !" 

The  flushed  cheeks,  tumbled  hair,  and  heavy  eyes 
wore  the  aspect  of  guilt.  Sararose  would  have  turn- 
ed her  face  aside,  but  Enoch  held  her. 

"  I've  looked  enough,"  she  said,  childishly.  "  Let 
me  go." 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?"  he  asked,  gravely,  wanting  to 
melt  the  hardness  of  her  mood  to  passionate  contri- 
tion. "  Is  it  my  little  rose  of  the  mountains,  my  in- 
nocent sister  ?" 

Sararose  felt  that  underneath  the  velvet  pathos  of 
Enoch  consequences  lay  thorny  and  menacing,  so  she 
was  not  melted. 

"  It's  late — I  was  sleepy,"  she  said,  tartly ;  "  I 
was  sleepy,  Enoch.  Of  course  I  am  not  looking  as 
I  do  at  nine  in  the  morning." 

Sararose  picked  up  her  hat  languidly  and  sat  down 
on  the  couch.  She  folded  her  hands  in  patience,  aa 
if  waiting  for  a  tiresome  caller  to  go.  She  wondered 
if  Enoch  had  heard  the  men's  voices,  if  he  had  learn- 
ed from  the  landlady  anything  about  her — in  fact,  she 
wondered  what  he  did  know  of  her  evening's  expe- 
rience. It  was  the  part  of  wisdom  to  be  silent,  and  so 
far  she  had  not  committed  herself.  What  would  he 
say  next?  How  angrv  he  would  be  if  he  knew! 

304 


The   Tribunal 

"  Where  have  you  been  this  evening,  and  who  was 
with  you  ?" 

All  the  velvet  had  gone  from  Enoch's  tone,  and 
his  eyes  were  slate  -  colored.  She  knew  the  color 
and  all  it  implied.  At  the  question  her  heart 
gave  a  great  jump,  as  if  some  one  had  suddenly 
knocked.  Was  there  to  be  no  loophole  for  evasion? 
The  evening's  pleasure  grew  hideous  as  she  re- 
viewed it  through  the  medium  of  those  slate  -  col- 
ored eyes. 

"  I  went  out  —  out  to  a  concert.  Mr.  Hollister 
and  some  others  were  with  me."  Enoch  knew  that 
Sararose  lied,  and  she  knewT  that  he  knew,  but  some- 
how to  frame  the  truth  seemed  physically  impos- 
sible. 

"  Was  Mrs.  Hollister  with  you  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Who  were  the  others  ?" 

"  Mr.  Eathbun,  Mr.  Nixon,  and  Mrs.  Kuddle." 

"  Mrs.  Ruddle  ?" 

"  You  remember  her.  She  is  a  friend  of  the  Hollis- 
ters."  It  is  all  going  very  smoothly,  thought  poor 
Sararose,  somewhat  mistaking  the  quiet  tenor  of 
Enoch's  question. 

"  I  remember  her.  She  danced  in  breeches  on  the 
lawn." 

Sararose  wanted  to  laugh,  but  she  knew  that  it 
would  make  her  brother  furious  at  her  flippancy,  so 
she  clinched  her  thin  fingers  tightly  in  her  palms 
and  looked  solemn. 

"  She  was  the  only  other  woman  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  was  this  concert  ?" 

"  At— at  Carnegie." 
u  305 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

Enoch  looked  round  the  room,  picking  up  a  pro- 
gramme from  the  table  beside  him. 

"  Is  this  the  programme  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Sararose,  sharply.  Enoch  looked 
at  her  coolly  and  perused  the  sheet. 

"  Metropolitan  Opera  House,"  he  said,  aloud. 
"  Grand  opera,  under  the  direction  of— 

"  One  of  my  friends  left  it  here,"  interpolated 
Sararose,  feebly. 

"  '  Rheingold !  Friday  evening,  March  12th/ 
That  is  this  evening,"  said  Enoch,  as  he  gave  the 
paper  a  contemptuous  toss  aside.  "  Where  is  the  pro- 
gramme of  the  concert  at  Carnegie  ?" 

Sararose  cast  ineffectual  glances  at  the  floor. 

"  I — I  don't  see  it.    I  don't  know,  Enoch." 

The  slate-colored  eyes  took  aim  at  the  blue  libretto 
thrown  wide  open  on  Sararose's  littered  desk. 

"  '  Das  Rheingold,'  too,"  he  smiled,  a  little  grimly. 
Sararose  quivered  before  the  grim  smile. 

"  It  wasn't  wicked,"  she  wailed.  "  Oh,  Enoch, 
they  begged  me  to  go  so  hard."  Then  the  Rhine- 
maiden  laughter  began  to  sing  itself  to  her,  and  after 
that  she  hardly  heard. 

"  To — the  concert  at  Carnegie,"  said  Enoch,  with 
the  mechanical  insistence  of  a  hammer. 

"  To  the — opera."  Sararose  gulped  out  the  words 
as  Enoch  meant  she  should,  and  fell  to  weeping, 
while  the  little  Rhine  maidens  still  laughed,  glee- 
fully, hatefully. 

"  It  wasn't  wicked ;  it  was  beautiful.  And  they 
wanted  me  to  go  so  much ;  they  begged  me  so  hard." 

"  The  insistence  of  a  crew  of  worldly  fellows — 
none  of  them  your  particular  friends,  are  they,  Sara- 
rose?" 

306 


The    Tribunal 

"  No." 

"  — And  a — a — light  -  minded  woman  had  more 
weight  with  you  than  your  brother's  wishes  " — Enoch 
had  a  euphemistic  way  of  calling  his  commands 
wishes — "  and  your  own  principles."  He  paused  for 
an  answer.  It  was  torture  to  Sararose  to  be  pulled 
through  the  keyhole  of  Enoch's  conscience.  If  he 
would  only  come  out  with  consequences  and  have 
done  with  her.  But  that  was  not  his  method.  He 
believed  himself  to  be  gently  leading  an  erring  one 
to  a  realization  of  her  wrong,  so  that  the  conse- 
quences, even  though  personally  wielded  by  him, 
should  be  regarded  rather  in  the  light  of  inevitable 
providence  than  personal  penalty. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  an  answer  to  my  question," 
said  Enoch,  while  Sararose,  her  brain  dazed  under 
the  blended  influence  of  past  pleasure  and  present 
misery,  and  reeling  with  sleepiness,  tried  hard  to 
recollect  what  the  question  had  been.  She  pressed 
her  fingers  against  her  throbbing  temples  to  hush  the 
rise  and  fall  of  laughing  voices. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  asked  me.  I'm  so  tired. 
Let  me  go  to  bed,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  the 
morning." 

"  Poor,  foolish,  tired,  sinful  child  !"  Enoch  wanted 
to  say,  and  to  fold  her  to  his  heart  in  a  big-brother- 
ly, restful  embrace.  Sararose,  too,  wanted  to  lay  her 
head  against  his  shoulder  and  to  cry  herself  to  sleep, 
forgiven  by  him.  If  either  one  had  yielded  to  the 
impulse  of  the  heart,  how  different  would  have  been 
the  history  of  that  night. 

But  Enoch,  bitterly  hurt  as  he  was,  thought  Sara- 
rose,  for  her  soul's  good,  should  feel  something  of 
the  bitterness  and  shame  which  he  vicariously  en- 

307 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

dured  for  her.  Fresh  from  the  lonely  white  woods 
and  lonely  white  thoughts  of  a  life  of  service  and 
self-denial,  he  seemed  now  to  breathe  the  hectic  air 
of  self-indulgence  and  perdition.  If  he  had  tried, 
he  could  hardly  have  rid  himself  of  his  terrific  sense 
of  responsibility,  and  he  did  not  try.  To  feel  re- 
sponsibility for  another's  happiness  does  not  entail 
such  harrowing  as  to  feel  responsibility  for  another's 
righteousness.  To  mould  a  human  soul  to  one's  own 
ideal  is  a  task  no  human  soul  can  undertake  and  re- 
main blameless. 

So  Enoch  crushed  the  impulse  of  his  heart,  took 
Sararose's  wrists  in  the  same  godlike  grasp,  and  set 
himself  anew  to  the  task  of  her  humiliation.  Now 
he  had  reached  his  usual  question  of  Why  ?  He  was 
probing  for  motive. 

"  Why  ?"  repeated  Sararose,  tired  out  and  indif- 
ferent, at  last,  to  whatever  should  follow.  "  Why 
did  I  go  ?  Because  I  wanted  to." 

"  You  wanted  to  ?"  Enoch  dwelt  on  the  word  to 
emphasize  its  hopeless  inadequacy. 

"  I  wanted  to,  I  wanted  to,"  almost  shouted  mild, 
little  Sararose,  maddened  beyond  endurance  and  ris- 
ing on  the  wings  of  her  audacity.  "  I  wanted  to  live 
my  own  life  and  not  yours,  Enoch." 

She  walked  to  the  mirror,  and  commenced  un- 
hooking herself  desperately.  Enoch,  aroused  to  per- 
sonal wrath  by  this  last  fling,  followed  her  and 
wheeled  her  around. 

"  Your  principles  ?"  he  asked,  sternly.  Sararose 
tossed  her  ribbon  stock  into  the  top  drawer,  and  pull- 
ed out  with  a  vim  her  few  remaining  hair-pins. 

"  Principles  ?  I  have  none,"  she  said,  and  laughed 
up  into  the  slate-colored  eyes.  Her  heart  smote  her 

308 


The    Tribunal 

at  the  same  instant,  for  she  knew  that  the  words  cut 
Enoch  like  a  knife,  and  his  gray  face  and  the  deep 
lines  told  of  the  suffering  already.  His  silence  filled 
her  with  dread.  He  would  surely  ask  her  to  explain, 
and  she  only  meant  that  she  had  no  principle  against 
the  opera. 

Enoch  took  his  seat  again,  not  looking  at  her.  She 
knew  he  was  forming  some  dreadful  resolution.  She 
had  half  a  mind  to  go  down  on  her  knees  before  him 
and  ask  his  forgiveness.  Then  he  spoke.  Ah,  she 
could  never  forget  those  few  curt  words  and  the  sense 
of  doom  they  brought. 

"  Pack  your  trunk !  We  will  leave  New  York  in 
the  morning.  If  you  have  no  principles,  I  shall  keep 
you  where  you  will  be  under  my  protection." 

"  Leave  New  York  ?  Not  to  return  ?"  Sararose 
quivered,  all  her  audacity  and  bravado  deserting  her. 

"  Not  to  return,"  said  Enoch,  "  as  long  as  I  have 
guardianship  and  the  money  to  keep  you." 

"  Enoch !"  It  was  easy  now  to  fall  on  her  knees 
and  pour  forth  a  flood  of  mingled  tears,  protestations, 
and  humility. 

"  You  are  not  listening  to  me,"  she  moaned. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Oh,  but  you  do  not  know.  You  are  spoiling  my 
whole  life." 

"  I  am  saving  it  for  you." 

"  My  voice — my  music.  You  do  not  know  what 
my  teachers  say.  What  can  I  do  up  there?  Oh, 
Enoch  !" 

Again  he  was  lifting  her  to  her  feet,  more  pity- 
ingly this  time,  and  telling  her  to  go  to  bed. 

"  To  -  morrow  morning  ?  Not  to  -  morrow  morn- 
ing!" 

309 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

A  little  thought  of  relenting  came  to  Enoch.  The 
shade  of  it  crossed  his  face.  Not  a  commutal,  but  a 
postponement  of  the  return,  for  it  would  also  play 
havoc  with  his  plans  to  return  immediately.  He 
paved  the  way  for  himself  by  giving  his  sister  oppor- 
tunity for  more  agony  of  contrition. 

"  Sararose,  if  you  had  met  me  differently,  if  you 
had  not  seemed  to  glory  in  your  wrong — ' 

"  You  would  have  forgiven  me,"  she  caught  at 
the  possibility,  eagerly ;  "  you  would  not  have  made 
the  punishment  so  great." 

"  It  is  not  punishment,"  said  Enoch,  gently,  dis- 
armed by  her  humility,  "  it  is  simply  result." 

From  the  bottom  of  her  soul,  how  Sararose  hated 
Results,  Consequences !  —  those  large,  impersonal 
forces  that  yet  seemed  puppets  at  her  brother's  bid- 
ding. 

"  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said.  I  did  not  know ;  I 
was  confused  —  the  supper,  the — '  She  realized 
what  she  was  saying,  and  stopped,  horrified.  Enoch 
did  not  know  about  the  supper.  If  the  supper,  too, 
were  to  be  reckoned  with,  what  form  would  Conse- 
quences take  ?  But  the  look  of  horror  did  not  escape 
the  slate-colored  eyes. 

"  What  supper  ?  This  time  speak  the  truth.  Tell 
me  all." 

Sararose  took  a  heroic  resolve.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  Enoch  would  relent  if  he  saw  that  she  spoke  the 
truth  bravely. 

"  We  had  a  little  supper — " 

"  I  know,  I  know,  at  last !"  cried  Enoch.  He  drew 
Sararose's  small  face  nearer,  holding  it  between  his 
great  hands.  The  suffused  and  heavy  childlike  eyes 
dropped  before  his  steady  gaze. 

310 


The    Tribunal 


"  Wine !"  cried  Enoch,  with  supreme,  painful  brev- 
ity. "  No,  no,  Sararose,  I  will  not  listen  to  you. 
No,  no,  say  no  more.  I  am  glad  I  did  not  come  too 
late,  if  indeed  it  is  not  already  too  late." 

He  pushed  her  from  him,  gently,  but  with  terri- 
ble reproof. 

"  Good-night." 

He  did  not  kiss  the  poor,  pleading,  tear-stained, 
distorted  little  face.  She  tried  in  vain  to  frame 
"  good-night,"  but  only  a  sob  came.  She  threw  her- 
self face  downward  on  the  pillow  as  he  left  the  room. 

Sararose  had  just  one  thought.  Something  had 
come  to  her  that  was  too  terrible  for  endurance. 

"  I  cannot  stand  it,"  she  moaned. 

The  unendurable  things  are  always  those  that  en- 
dure. Their  enduringness,  despite  ourselves,  make 
us  cry  out  in  anguish,  "  It  is  unendurable." 

"  I  cannot  stand  it,"  we  say,  because  we  must,  and 
can.  Sararose  suffered  the  most  exquisite  torture 
from  reviewing  the  whole  interview,  and  realizing 
that  here  or  there  had  been  her  opportunity  for  stav- 
ing off  doom.  Here  or  there  Enoch  would  have  re- 
lented; here  or  there  she  herself  had  precipitated 
Consequences.  Exquisite  torture  of  those  who  look 
back  to  see  how  easily  safety  could  have  been  pur- 
chased! Sararose  had  never  heard  of  the  Aeschy- 
lean motive  of  infatuation  nor  of  Omar's  fatalism. 
Nevertheless,  she  felt  herself  blindly  hurried  along, 
a  leaf  in  the  wind,  by  a  force  behind  her  she  neither 
saw  nor  understood. 

"  I  cannot  stand  it,  I  cannot  stand  it,"  she  moaned, 
when  suddenly  a  light  gleamed  through  the  black 
wall  of  her  anguish. 

"  I  will  not  stand  it,"  she  cried. 
311 


The   Strength   of  the  Hills 

She  sat  up  and  stopped  crying.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments of  self-restraint  she  went  to  the  glass,  and,  lean- 
ing forward,  minutely  examined  her  face.  The  pit- 
iful look  of  it  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes  again; 
then  she  smiled  at  her  face's  reflection  resolutely  as 
she  dressed  her  hair  and  washed. 

When  she  had  finally  arrayed  herself  for  out-of- 
doors  she  looked  at  her  little  alarm-clock,  ticking  off 
its  imperturbable  life  on  the  top  of  the  mantel  bed.  It 
was  seventeen  minutes  after  two.  She  extinguished 
the  gas,  and  stealthily  crept  down  stairs  and  out 
into  the  night.  It  was  night  in  a  great  city,  at  an 
hour  she  had  never  before  known  or  imagined  out- 
side of  her  bed.  Up  brilliant,  deserted,  mysterious 
Broadway  she  walked,  with  a  beating  heart.  She 
knew  where  she  was  going  and  she  was  not  afraid. 
She  thought  she  was  not  afraid.  But  the  future  was 
dark  before  her  as  the  city  was  that  night,  punctured 
here  and  there  by  staggering  lights.  The  lights  made 
the  darkness  greater.  She  was  in  that  mental  state 
when  the  beating  of  one's  heart  repeats  itself  in  the 
ears  and  fills  the  world  with  confusion,  when  the 
sound  of  one's  own  steps  strikes  the  senses  dully  like 
another's  who  walks  beside.  Several  times  Sararose 
glanced  behind  her  to  see  if  she  were  followed.  Her 
thoughts  were  so  loud  that  they,  too,  seemed  like  an- 
other's, and  became  audible  to  the  hearing.  The  cool 
night  air  and  the  plunge  to  an  audacious  resolution 
had  brought  back  to  her  the  memory  of  the  compact 
with  Richard  Hollister  across  the  table  at  Xocq's. 

"  Come  to  me  when  you  want  me,"  he  had  said. 

She  wanted  him  now. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
Enoch  Thinks 

As  Enoch  entered  his  room,  the  laughing  actress 
on  the  wall  greeted  him  over  her  bare  shoulder. 
He  strode  across  with  an  exclamation  of  disgust, 
pulled  down  the  picture,  and  let  it  fall,  pink-bonnet- 
ed face  downward,  on  the  floor.  Then  he  sat  himself 
in  the  little  cane-bottomed  chair,  too  small  for  the 
breadth  of  his  frame,  and  thought.  He  had  been 
in  a  fury  of  disappointment,  indignation,  over  Sara- 
rose.  He  thought  it  righteous  indignation,  because 
he  thought  she  had  sinned.  That  she,  his  sister,  had 
fallen  so  low,  hurt  him  to  the  core.  That  she  could, 
that  she  wanted  to,  that  she  dared,  that  she  had ! 
Above  all,  that  she  had  dared!  It  must  be  remem- 
bered that  to  Enoch  opera  and  a  wine  -  supper 
meant  not  the  first  step,  but  a  far  -  down  step,  on 
the  road  to  ruin.  He  could  have  been  very  tender 
over  an  abandoned  woman,  utterly  abandoned,  but 
kinship  and  the  possibility  of  redemption  made  him 
stern.  Insulted  pride  seared  his  brain,  for  Sara- 
rose  had  dared  to  break  a  promise,  wilfully  to  flout 
his  known  principles.  Eear  for  her  went  like  ice 
to  his  finger-tips.  Pity  for  her,  shame  for  himself, 
burned  dry  his  throat.  Pride,  anger,  humiliation, 
swung,  swayed,  and  sucked  at  him,  till  he  knew  not 

313 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

how  time  went  in  the  blackness  of  the  maelstrom. 
Out  of  the  black  pool  he  had  a  vision,  a  circle  of 
pines,  a  bright  head  against  a  green-hued  lamp,  the 
breath  of  balsam-fir.  That  was  salvation.  What  mat- 
ter that  a  wide,  new  world  was  shut  away  from  him, 
that  a  door  just  opened  was  slammed  in  his  face? 
Even  the  voice  of  Alison  would  not  have  been  potent 
to  keep  him  in  New  York.  The  soul  of  Sararose 
must  be  led  back  from  the  gulf.  Sararose  in  Elk 
Mountain ;  Enoch  in  New  York — the  cruelty  of  this 
would  have  been  impossible.  They  would  go  back 
together,  and  together  build  up  what  had  fallen. 

Pride,  anger,  shame,  fear  ebbed  away.  Only 
pity  and  love  remained.  The  memory  of  the  sweet, 
stained  face  came  to  him.  He  would  go  to  her,  com- 
fort her  if  she  waked,  or  kiss  her  sleeping  brow. 
How  easy  it  is  for  the  conqueror  to  offer  comfort! 
He  went  to  her  room.  The  mantel-bed  stood  un- 
opened, maintaining  its  cumbersome  semblance.  The 
blue  libretto  lay  spread  out  upon  the  floor.  The 
hat,  with  its  hyacinth  masses,  was  gone. 

Gone !  Sararose  gone,  fled  out  into  the  night,  into 
the  city.  The  deep  horror  of  night  -  engulfed  city 
struck  to  Enoch's  heart.  He  looked  down  for  a  min- 
ute from  the  little  high  window  over  the  irregular 
roof-lines,  and  below  at  the  converging  lanes  of  dark- 
ness beaded  by  street  lights.  As  far  away  as  he  could 
see,  the  city  wore  its  necklace  of  light,  like  serpent 
eyes  around  Medusa's  neck. 

"  O  Hesperus,  thou  bringest  all  good  things."  But 
night — that  same  night  that  brought  good  things  to 
a  thousand,  that  was  a  kind,  dark,  brooding  mother, 
that  was  holy  rest  and  protection — was  to  Enoch  the 
Mother  of  Evil.  He  knelt. 

314 


Enoch    Thinks 

"  Out  of  the  depths  do  I  cry  unto  Thee,  O  my 
God,  save  her !" 

It  was  twenty  minutes  of  three.  He  went  down 
into  the  street. 

"  There  was  a  slip  of  a  gyrul  went  by,  wid  a  face 
on  her  like  a  dish  of  tay,  the  crathur." 

Enoch  could  scarcely  wait  for  the  big  policeman's 
words. 

"  My  sister !  Auburn  hair,  and  a  violet-colored 
flower  in  her  hat?" 

"  She  went  by  torrads  the  river,  wid  a  bit  shawl 
on  the  head  of  her." 

"No,  no!" 

Enoch  was  making  off  again,  but  the  policeman 
laid  a  burly  hand  upon  him. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  sor.  You're  that  onaisy  you  do  be 
ating  me  head  off.  I'll  tiliphone  to  the  Tinderloin 
station.  They  may  hev  taken  her  up,  perhaps,  if 
she  was  afther  losin'  her  way  or  a  bit  dishtracted- 
like." 

He  threw  these  suggestions  out  tentatively,  for  he 
coarsely  grasped  the  situation  —  brother  from  the 
country,  girl  going  wrong,  a  row — 

"  They  do  sometimes  take  to  the  river,  sor,"  he 
called  after  Enoch. 

"  Clean  crazy,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  watched 
Enoch's  furious  pace. 

"  There  do  be  a  power  o*  misfortunate  crathurs  in 
this  'ere  world." 

He  was  a  kindly  policeman,  but  he  had  not  been 
on  the  corner  when  Sararose  floated  up  lonely  Broad- 
way in  the  violet-colored  hat. 

To  the  river  Enoch  went.  The  river!  He  had 
put  upon  her  more  than  she  could  bear.  He  knew 

315 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

it  now.  Nothing  upon  earth  except  this  would  have 
convinced  him  of  his  own  severity.  He  had  driven 
Sararose  to — the  river!  My  God!  Did  she  find 
return  to  the  mountains  worse  than  such  a  death  ? 
Little  Sararose,  had  she  such  passions,  such  desires, 
such  intensity  ?  Nothing  can  prove  to  some  people 
the  intensity  of  other  people's  natures  but  extremity 
of  action.  Their  absorption  in  their  own  natures 
makes  others  pale  to  them.  Enoch  began  to  stand 
in  awe  of  Sararose,  an  awe  he  had  never  before  felt 
of  any  human  soul. 

The  river  swept  dark  and  forbidding  at  the  end 
of  the  street.  Oh,  river  of  death,  what  pitiful  lives 
have  gone  to  you  at  the  last!  In  London,  in  Paris, 
in  New  York — poor  dregs  of  lives  that  have  spilled 
themselves  out  on  the  merciless  waters  of  the  river. 
They  have  opened  to  receive  you,  those  merciless 
waters,  swirled  you  down  and  washed  you  up  again 
like  sea-weed  on  the  shore. 

A  woman  plucked  Enoch  by  the  arm.  He  had  not 
seen  her  emerge  from  a  neighboring  alley,  nor  heard 
her  steps.  At  his  sharp  cry  she  cowered. 

"  For  the  love  of  God !"  she  whined.  Enoch  look- 
ed at  her,  and  she  drew  closer.  "  Ain't  you  awful 
tired  walking  ?" 

"  So  that's  what  you  are !"  he  exclaimed.  The 
horror  was  too  great  to  be  endured,  but  the  gaunt- 
ness  of  her  face  appalled  him.  "  Don't  touch  me !" 

She  waited  like  a  dog,  while  he  drew  a  dollar  bill 
from  his  pocket. 

Ah,  no,  no !  Sararose  could  never  have  gone 
to  the  river.  She  could  never  have  walked  the  same 
street  with  this  woman.  The  profanity  of  the  thought 
drove  away  Enoch  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow.  He 

316 


Enoch    Thinks 

wheeled  east  again,  with  the  woman  at  his  heels.  The 
dollar  bill,  clinched  and  crumpled  in  his  hand,  he 
had  forgotten,  till  he  heard  the  woman's  voice,  but 
not  what  she  said.  He  could  not  touch  her  nor  speak 
to  her,  but  he  dropped  the  bill  on  the  pavement,  then 
hurried  on.  Again  he  heard  the  poor,  spent  voice. 
He  had  wronged  her  by  such  contempt.  He  stopped 
while  she  gained  his  side. 

"  Ef  ye're  lookin'  fer  a  gal,"  she  gasped,  "  mebbe 
I  kin  help  ye." 

"  I  have  lost  my  sister,"  said  Enoch,  sternly. 
"  Have  you  seen  her,  woman  ?" 

"  You  ain't  from  the  Tenderloin,  sure,"  answered 
the  woman,  a  bit  flippantly.  "  My  God,  you  needn't 
look  at  me  so!  I'm  not  groggy.  I'll  tell  you  the 
truth,  so  God  help  me !  I've  been  doing  this  here 
water-front  all  night.  I  had  a  mind  to  step  off  my- 
self, but  this  '11  keep  me  going  awhile  longer.  No, 
there  ain't  been  no  one  here  but  my  nibs,  or  I'd 
hev  seen  her.  Lordy,  you  do  look  fazed,  though !" 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  demanded  Enoch. 

"  Ef  she's  a  gal,  and  she's  run  away  from  a  good 
home,"  said  the  woman,  bitterly,  "  there's  a  man  in 
it.  Go  and  give  him  my  love,  and  shoot  him !" 

The  woman's  outrageous  laugh  echoed  in  Enoch's 
ear  long  after  she  had  disappeared  down  an  alley. 

"  A  man  in  it.  Go  and  shoot  him  1"  Enoch  found 
a  corner  apothecary  and  a  directory.  The  yellow 
night  clerk  eyed  with  suspicion  the  big,  tawny  man 
with  the  terrible  eyes,  who  furled  in  and  out  of  the 
shop  like  vengeance. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
The    Frightful    Thought 

THE  porter  and  elevator-boy  had  food  for  reflec- 
tion that  night  at  the  Plantagenet,  the  big  apartment- 
house  on  Central  Park  West.  No  one  can  deny  these 
officials  the  privilege  of  piecing  together  such  detach- 
ed and  limited  circumstances  as  fall  under  their  ob- 
servation, and  making  of  them  a  coherent  and  expan- 
sive whole.  To  do  this  is  one  of  their  chief  vocations, 
and  there  are  those  who  attain  a  high  degree  of  skill 
in  supplying  deficiencies  in  records. 

At  an  hour  considerably  after  midnight  young 
Hollister  and  his  two  "  gemmlen  frien's  "  arrived, 
and  were  carried  up  in  the  elevator  by  a  wooden- 
faced,  but  interested,  elevator-boy.  Not  long  after 
these  two  departed,  the  "  lady-frien' "  rang  a  timid 
bell,  and  was  also  swung  upward  to  the  Hollister 
apartment.  The  phenomenally  slow  pace  of  the  ele- 
vator gave  the  wooden-faced  boy  purposed  opportu- 
nity for  several  observations. 

"  Mis'  Hollister  ain't  home,"  he  remarked,  with 
discreet  astuteness. 

"  She  done  say  nuffin',"  he  reported  later  to  the 
janitor,  "  but  she  'peart  mighty  scart-like." 

Richard  Hollister  found  himself  in  the  most  diffi- 
cult situation  he  had  ever  faced.  To  put  Sararose 

318 


The   Frightful   Thought 

in  an  easy-chair  before  the  flickering  gas-logs,  to  dry 
her  tears  with  his  own  soft  linen  handkerchief,  to 
revive  her  fainting  strength  with  a  hot  brew,  to  close 
carefully  the  doors  connecting  the  library  with  the 
rest  of  the  apartment — all  this  was  easy  and  natural ; 
but  what  next? 

"  You  won't  let  Enoch  take  me  back  to  Elk  Moun- 
tain, will  you  ?"  her  violin  voice  fluted. 

She  was  somewhat  comforted  by  the  opiates  of  ma- 
terial and  spiritual  sympathy  at  Richard's  command, 
and  was  by  this  time  much  more  at  ease  than  he. 

Then  the  battle  was  waged  between  the  four  walls 
of  that  modern,  conventional  library,  a  battle  with 
more  at  issue  than  the  mere  result,  with  more  persons 
involved  than  the  two  who  fought,  more  forces  en- 
gaged than  either  one  guessed.  Sararose  fought 
for  her  life  desperately,  passionately,  unreasoningly. 
Her  life  was  art  and  freedom,  but  she  knew  not  her 
strength  nor  what  weapons  she  held.  The  man  fought 
for  her  honor  against  himself.  Her  inexperience  was 
more  potent  than  his  knowledge. 

"  You  say  Enoch  is  like  iron.  I  know  it  as  well 
as  you  do,  little  girl.  What  can  I  do  to  help  you  ?" 

But  Sararose,  as  passionate  for  freedom  as  her 
brother  for  righteousness,  or  Hollister  for  pleasure, 
could  not,  would  not,  understand.  Because  she  want- 
ed a  way  out,  there  must  be  a  way  out.  And  Richard 
was  the  god  to  provide  her  the  way  out. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Sararose  ?  What  will  the  servants 
say  when  they  find  you  here  in  the  morning?  What 
will  my  wife  say  when  she  comes  home?" 

As  Richard  paced  the  room,  hardening  himself  to 
Sararose's  appeal,  she  followed  him  up  and  down, 
with  timidity,  with  abandon,  like  the  little  thirsty 

319 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

animal  that  follows  the  smell  of  water.  When  he 
stood  still,  scowling,  his  mouth  fixed,  playing  with 
the  tassels  at  the  window,  she  stood  beside  him.  When 
he  threw  himself  into  his  chair  by  the  fire,  she  was 
on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"  WThat  will  Enoch  say  when  he  comes,  when  he 
knows  you  are  here  ?" 

The  bright  gas  flames  flickered  on  her  hair,  and 
made  a  burning  aureole  around  her  pretty  head. 
They  shone  through  the  thin  hands  she  held  out  to 
Richard. 

"  He  will  not  come,  he  must  not  know,"  she  shiver- 
ed, lifting  to  the  man  that  look  he  could  not  with- 
stand. 

Richard  impulsively  drew  her  head  to  his  knee, 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  it.  He  was  a  brute  to  have 
steeled  himself  against  the  soft  creature's  unhappi- 
ness.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  suffering.  He  was 
tender-hearted  to  a  criminal  degree. 

"  No,  no,  he  shall  not  come,  sweetheart !"  he  mur- 
mured, caressing  the  aureoled  hair. 

It  was  only  an  impulse,  self  -  indulgent,  regard- 
less of  consequences,  as  all  impulses  are,  but  with 
none  of  the  ulterior  wickedness,  the  far  -  seeing  self- 
ishness that  is  too  often  laid  at  the  door  of  impulsive 
people. 

"  I  had  rather  drown  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
than  go  back  to  Elk  Mountain.  There  is  a  way  out  ? 
You  will  find  a  way  out?" 

"  There  is  a  way  out,"  said  Richard,  gravely, 
"  but  it  is  not  the  way  you  should  go." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Sararose, 
limpidly.  She  fluttered  to  her  feet  again,  and  sat 
bv  Hollister,  her  elbow  on  his  chair;  hope,  prayer, 

320 


The   Frightful   Thought 

eagerness,  innocence,  carelessness,  written  on  her 
face. 

Richard's  chin  quivered.  It  was  too  cruel  to  send 
her  back  to  her  brother.  He  could  only  save  her  from 
that  by  drawing  her,  somehow  or  other,  into  his 
life.  It  would  compromise  her.  She  might  remain 
innocent,  she  would  still  be  compromised.  It  would 
compromise  him.  Could  he  make  himself  a  martyr 
to  possible  reproach,  and  let  that  reproach  be  un- 
deserved, or  would  he  choose  to  win  the  deserts  of 
reproach,  with  its  possibility?  Dick  Hollister  was 
not  the  stuff  of  which  martyrs  are  made.  Would 
Sararose  pay  him  his  price  ? 

Richard  Hollister,  what  a  black  thought  is  this  in 
your  heart !  It  seems  impossible  that  it  should  not 
stream  up,  darkly  suffuse  the  face,  and  be  written 
indelibly  across  the  eyes. 

The  lily's  white  candor  will  suddenly  change  to 
mirk  if  a  drop  of  ink  be  poured  into  the  vase  that 
holds  it,  but  the  flower  of  the  human  face  will  often 
remain  stainless  for  all  the  mirk  at  the  core.  One 
may  walk  upon  the  street,  with  the  stress  of  battle 
just  emerged  from,  seared  and  throbbing  like  physi- 
cal wounds,  and  no  passer-by  will  look  a  second  time. 
It  seems  a  miracle.  Such  a  mask,  to  the  incurious, 
is  the  human  face.  One  may  go  home  and  scan  one's 
self  in  the  glass,  and  say: 

"  Verily,  strange  things  have  come  to  pass  within 
the  house,  but  they  are  not  sign-apparent  upon  the 
doors." 

Yet  the  gentle  flow  of  habit,  for  the  traces  of  which 

one  will  never  intently  scan  the  mirror,  will  leave 

its  indelible  tracery,  while  the  latest  -  come  event, 

though  it  be  a  Titan,  lurks  inscrutable.     From  the 

x  321 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

frightful  thought  that  had  crept  into  Richard's  heart 
he  looked  up,  the  same  adorable,  deep-eyed,  boyish 
flower  of  chivalry  that  had  first  been  emblazoned  on 
the  shield  of  Alison's  girlish  love.  A  man  may 
trample  on  women's  hearts,  and  wear  in  his  eyes  the 
look  of  a  tender,  great  god.  Such  a  look  was  Rich- 
ard's as  he  looked  at  Sararose,  with  the  Frightful 
Thought  in  his  heart.  If  he  had  been  a  better  man, 
he  would  have  looked  wickeder.  The  thought  would 
have  roused  self-consciousness.  What  the  philosopher 
of  La  Brede  says  of  a  certain  social  class  was  true  of 
Richard :  "  Our  virtues  should  be  touched  with  a  cer- 
tain nobleness,  our  morals  with  a  certain  freedom, 
our  manners  with  a  certain  politeness.  The  virtues 
exhibited  in  this  society  are  always  less  what  one 
owes  to  others  than  what  one  owes  to  one's  self ;  they 
are  not  so  much  a  response  to  an  appeal  from  our 
fellow-citizens,  as  a  mark  of  distinction  between  us 
and  them.  In  this  society  men's  actions  are  judged 
not  as  good,  but  as  handsome;  not  as  just,  but  as 
great;  not  as  reasonable,  but  as  extraordinary." 

Richard  could  entertain  a  frightful  thought  with 
complacence,  but  he  would  have  died  rather  than  do 
an  "  unhandsome  "  thing. 

Sararose,  swift  and  eager,  interpreted  his  face. 
She  was  used  to  face-reading,  for  there  had  been 
many  a  conflict  between  her  and  Enoch,  between 
Enoch's  loving  heart  and  his  stern  will,  when  a 
word,  a  look  from  her  at  the  right  moment,  had 
saved  her  the  day. 

"  Ah,  be  good  to  me  and  save  me,  and — I  will 
love  you  for  it." 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  his  chair.  All 
her  heart  was  in  her  child's  face.  Her  eyes  were  as 

322 


The   Frightful   Thought 

innocent  of  sin  as  Witchhopple  Brook.  Richard  look- 
ed at  her  so  searchingly  that  her  breath  came  with  a 
gasp.  ^ 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  cried,  answering  the 
search  of  his  eyes. 

He  put  his  head  down  to  her  uplifted  face,  and 
took  her  lips  to  his,  slowly,  slowly,  slowly.  Then, 
"  That  is  what  I  mean,"  he  breathed. 

The  sharp,  imperious  clang  of  the  electric  bell, 
instantly  repeated,  came  like  a  visible  intruder 
between  them.  They  sprang  apart,  facing  each 
other,  both  silent,  the  girl  white  as  marble.  The 
man  thought  of  his  wife,  the  girl  of  her  brother, 
at  the  self  -  same  instant.  If  it  had  been  Alison. 
Richard  would  have  hated  Sararose  by  the  same 
process  which  led  him  to  kiss  her.  But  it  was  not 
Alison. 

"  It  is  Enoch  !"  said  Sararose.  "  No,  no,  don't ! 
don't !  You  must  not  answer  the  bell !" 

She  flung  all  her  weight  upon  him,  between  him 
and  the  door. 

"  Hush !  don't  you  see  ?  The  servants  must  not 
be  wakened." 

Almost  roughly  he  pushed  her  from  him  and  went 
out  to  the  hall. 

Sararose  fell  backward  on  a  lounge,  but  through 
half-opened  doors  came  a  voice  bringing  terror  that 
reanimated  her.  She  fled  this  way  and  that,  pushed 
open  a  door  blindly,  and  huddled  upon  the  floor  in 
a  darkened  inner  room. 

"  Your  sister  Sararose  ?" 

Richard's  glance  comprehended  the  empty  library. 
Enoch  stood  at  the  door,  gray  with  suffering,  his 
eyes  a  dry  flame.  The  blueness  of  them  hurt.  He 

323 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

had  such  eyes  that  emotion  seen  through  their  me- 
dium wore  their  color.  If  it  was  anger,  blue  seemed 
the  color  of  anger:  love,  blue  was  the  color  of  love. 
Now,  blue  seemed  the  very  color  and  essence  of 
pain. 

"  By  Jove !"  thought  Hollister,  "  how  he  loves 
her!"  and  his  feet  began  to  feel  tangled. 

"  She  left  the  house  to-night,  some  time  between 
two  and  three,  after  the  opera  and  the  supper  had 
unsettled  her  head." 

This  was  unnecessary,  but  Enoch  said  it  slowly 
and  distinctly.  lie  was  never  so  swept  away  but 
that  his  purposes  remained,  evident  to  himself,  if  not 
to  others.  Even  Richard  diminished  under  that  pow- 
erful gaze. 

"  Has  she  been  here  ?" 

"  By  Jove !     I'm  sorry  you're  in  trouble,  Enoch." 

"  Has  she  been  here  ?" 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?  I  left  her  in  her  room 
on  Fortieth  Street." 

Richard,  in  tone  and  look,  was  dazed,  compassion- 
ate, straightforward.  He  cursed  himself  inwardly. 
It  was  a  devilish  pickle  for  a  fellow  like  him  to  be 
in.  If  the  silly  child  had  only  stayed  in  the  library — 
even  so,  the  explanation  would  have  been  easier. 
For  his  sake,  for  hers  too,  for  everybody's  sake,  he 
must  lie  out  of  it. 

"  Has  she  been  here  ?" 

For  the  third  time  the  hammer  fell  with  terrible 
persistence. 

"  Has  she  been  here  ?"  as  if  the  question  had  just 
burst  upon  him.  "  Xo !" 

The  two  men  looked  each  other  squarely  in  the 
eye,  the  man  who  loved  "  honor  "  and  the  man  who 

324 


The    Frightful   Thought 

loved  honesty.  Richard's  eyes  did  not  flinch  before 
Enoch's,  but  his  chin  quivered  once. 

"  You  lie !"  said  Enoch.  He  was  sure  Richard 
lied.  If  Sararose  had  not  been  there,  Richard  would 
have  gone  for  his  hat  and  the  elevator  before  Enoch's 
first  inquiry  had  left  his  mouth.  Enoch  knew  his 
man.  Dick  Hollister's  was  a  nature  of  quick  impulses 
and  ready  sympathy.  Enoch  hated  him.  Especially 
since  the  time  when  he  knew  his  promotion  in  the 
lumber  camp  to  be  due  to  young  Hollister's  testimony 
had  he  hated  him.  Enoch  was  too  proud  to  enjoy  the 
sense  of  gratitude.  Therefore,  because  he  was  proud, 
and  sure,  and  hated,  he  said,  "  You  lie !" 

"  Enoch  Holme !  But  I  forgive  it,  because  you're 
beside  yourself.  Come,  we  will  look  for  her  to- 
gether." 

"  You  said  that  too  late !"  ground  out  Enoch.  "  I 
will  look  for  her  here  !" 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  again,  more  fiercely 
this  time.  The  feint  salutatory  had  passed  between 
them.  It  was  war  to  the  death.  Richard  was 
aroused.  The  honor  of  himself  and  his  house  was 
at  stake.  His  was  the  fierceness  of  self-preservation. 
Enoch  was  fierce  in  the  hunt  for  Sararose,  in  the 
hunt  for  a  lie. 

"  I  will  kill  you  if  you  cross  that  threshold !" 

"Stand  aside!" 

It  was  words  no  longer  between  them,  but  the 
savage  stillness  of  warring  animals.  The  strength 
of  the  motive  informs  the  action ;  the  strength  of 
the  soul  informs  the  motive.  Enoch  conquered.  Rich- 
ard crashed  downward,  the  marks  of  Enoch's  fingers 
on  his  throat  and  his  right  wrist  disabled.  The 
thick  Angora  rug  before  the  fireplace  broke  his  fall. 

325 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

But  silence  still  reigned  in  the  darkened  inner  room. 
Enoch  had  crossed  the  threshold,  had  seen  the  crum- 
pled heap  that  lay  by  the  bed.  He  did  not  stoop 
to  it  nor  speak. 

He  went  back  to  the  man  who  had  opposed  him  in 
vain.  He  raised  him  to  the  lounge,  gave  him  water, 
hung  over  him,  brotherly-wise. 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?" 

"  All  right,"  and  by  this  commonplace  exchange 
did  the  battling  souls  retire  for  the  nonce  into  the 
caves  of  neutrality. 

Enoch  had  conquered,  and  the  victory  filled  him 
with  a  scorn  so  sublimated  that  it  was  almost  pity 
for  the  vanquished.  As  for  his  sister,  if  he  had 
found  her  in  the  river,  the  white,  drowned  face  would 
have  been  enshrined  as  a  saint's  in  his  memory  all 
the  rest  of  his  life.  Her  frailties  would  have  been 
forgotten  in  the  tragedy  of  her  end.  She  would 
have  been  dignified  to  him  forever  by  the  magnitude 
of  his  own  sorrow.  Perhaps  even  this  is  egoism. 
But  Sararose,  in  a  crumpled  heap  on  the  floor  of 
Dick  Hollister's  bedroom — no  humiliation  was  too 
great.  The  humiliation  that  is  death  to  ourselves  is 
a  wholesome  bitter  to  others.  It  would  be  well  for 
those  who  hold  authority  to  consider  that  humiliation, 
instead  of  building  up,  far  oftener  disintegrates  char- 
acter. 

Enoch  went  again  to  that  threshold,  the  defence 
of  which  had  cost  Hollister  dear.  Hollister  watched 
him  languidly.  It  did  not  matter  so  much  now.  He 
wondered  that  he  had  cared.  Things,  on  the  eve 
of  happening,  have  a  way  of  startling  us  with  their 
portent — those  same  things,  having  happened,  take 
their  place  among  the  many  other  commonplaces  of 

326 


The    Frightful   Thought 

life.  As  far  as  pleasant  Richard  could  hate,  he  hated 
Enoch,  not  because  Enoch  had  accused  him  of  a  lie, 
nor  because  he  had  found  him  out  in  a  lie,  but  because 
he  had  assumed  the  lie  to  be  a  lie.  It  is  manifestly 
an  ungentlemanly  advantage  to  assume  that  a  man 
lies  even  when  he  is  lying.  But  the  disabled  wrist 
gave  Enoch  a  lien  on  Richard's  respect. 

"  Sararose,"  said  Enoch,  gravely,  colorlessly — 
"  Sararose,  get  up !" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  soft  sound  of  skirts 
sweeping  into  the  library.  The  hall-door  had  been 
left  ajar,  and  Alison,  arriving  from  her  early  train, 
floated  like  a  breeze  of  morning  into  the  hectic  apart- 
ment. Fresh  and  dainty  from  the  Pullman  sleeper, 
rosy  after  her  drive  across  the  park,  she  stood,  with 
the  smile  dying  out  of  her  clear  eyes.  Richard  rose, 
and  fell  back  again  with  a  little  sound,  his  right  arm 
limp. 

Alison  went  to  him  and  kissed  his  damp  forehead. 

"  My  dear  husband !"  she  said,  proudly,  compas- 
sionately, touching  his  arm. 

She  perceived  the  aura  of  past  tumult,  and  her 
first  thought  was  one  of  utter  loyalty.  Each  man 
experienced  that  revulsion  of  feeling  which  comes 
of  suddenly  seeing  one's  self  through  the  medium  of 
another  person's  eyes.  Enoch  realized  his  hardness ; 
Richard  his  weakness.  Alison  crossed  the  room  to 
follow  Enoch's  gaze. 

"  She  has  fainted,  Enoch."  she  said,  swiftly  gath- 
ering Sararose  into  her  strong  young  arms. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  Enoch, 
and  he  blessed  her  for  it.  It  opened  all  the  foun- 
tains of  his  heart. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Alison  that  she  demanded 
327 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

no  explanations.  To  abstain  from  argument  with 
drowning  people  is  a  rare  moral  accomplishment. 

When  Enoch  opened  the  blinds  and  let  the  morning 
light  quench  the  glare  of  the  chandeliers,  he  knew 
for  the  first  time  that  it  was  no  longer  night.  The 
red  sun  glimmered  over  the  bare,  gray  tops  of  the 
park,  and  the  cable-cars,  black  with  working-men, 
clanged  their  way  down-town. 

Only  forty-eight  hours  before  he  had  seen  the 
Angel  of  Dawn  spread  her  wings  above  the  virgin 
blush  of  Adirondack  snows. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 
Alison's  Advice 

LATER  in  the  day  Enoch  and  Alison  met  for  a  talk. 
Enoch  sought  Alison's  advice.  It  was  not  his  habit 
to  seek  counsel  from  others,  except  in  the  way 
of  strengthening  a  preconceived  opinion.  If  they 
agreed  with  him,  so  far  so  good.  If  they  disagreed, 
the  argument  left  him  more  thoroughly  convinced 
than  ever.  But  his  motive  for  seeking  Alison's  ad- 
vice was  the  yearning  of  a  whole  winter,  the  re- 
nunciation on  Mount  Taseco,  the  hunger  of  the  heart. 

"  Once,  and  once  only,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and 
then  back  again  to  your  hills  and  to  loneliness  and 
to  the  saving  of  Sararose." 

He  had  not  failed  to  note  the  transparency  of 
Alison's  look,  a  wistfulness  that  genius  wears,  or  the 
soul  that  looks  for  gold  and  finds  dross.  The  look 
of  genius  is  indubitable — a  vision  of  great  things  and 
the  veil  of  earth  between,  a  stretching  out  after  in- 
finity and  death  drawing  us  backward.  So  is  it 
with  the  great  heart  that  lavishes  itself  and  is  be- 
trayed, that  kneels  and  is  refused.  The  look  is  one 
of  transparency,  clay  worn  fine  and  thin  by  the  clear 
burning;  of  wistfulness  such  as  children  wear  in 
their  sleep.  We  may  call  it  genius  in  both,  for  true 
loving  is  genius.  A  rare  and  inborn  gift  vouchsafed 
to  the  elect  is  the  gift  of  high,  passionate  loving. 

329 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

Alison  had  found  in  her  husband  what  she  would 
not  acknowledge  to  herself,  though  it  was  what  she 
had  not  found  that  saddened  her.  Marriage  had 
brought  the  real  intimacy  that  years  of  fellowship 
had  failed  in  doing.  During  the  first  romantic  days 
of  the  horseback  riding  among  the  hills,  love  and 
youth  had  been  enough.  Many  another  time  in  the 
city  a  kiss  and  a  dainty  phrase  had  been  Richard's 
answer  to  Alison's  reach  for  his  soul.  Then  came 
the  times  when  he  was  silent,  or  the  unrevealing  com- 
monplace had  baffled  her.  She  had  learned  that  they 
could  go  thus  far  and  no  farther.  Where  she  had 
thought  to  find  a  gate  set  into  the  delectable  garden, 
through  which  they  might  go  hand  in  hand  into  other 
and  yet  other  pleasaunces,  she  had  come  up  against 
a  dead  wall.  The  finality  of  a  wall  is  appalling.  It 
is  its  own  sufficient  answer.  There  is  no  appeal  from 
it.  It  is  hard  for  a  young  wife  to  go  on  and  on 
through  open  gates  into  ever-widening  gardens  and 
leave  the  husband  behind.  It  is  harder  still  to  cir- 
cumscribe one's  soul  by  the  walls  of  another.  By- 
and-by  one  forgets  that  there  is  a  garden  beyond, 
and  by-and-by  if  one  should  look  for  the  gate,  one 
could  not  find  it. 

Richard  felt  that  in  some  way  he  did  not  fulfil 
a  vague,  unreasonable  ideal.  Alison  was  the  dearest 
woman  in  the  world  to  him,  but  there  were  times 
when  he  could  not  understand  her.  There  was  a  sort 
of  material  comfort  in  the  adoration  of  Sararose's 
eyes  and  Ysobel  Ruddle's  witty  audacity.  But  when 
Alison  went  to  him  that  pale  morning,  and  said, 
"  My  dear  husband,"  he  could  have  died  in  torment 
and  counted  himself  happy. 

With  the  clairvovance  of  those  who  deeply  feel 
330 


Alison's  Advice 

and  deeply  love,  Enoch  read  something  of  this  mu- 
tual relationship  in  their  two  faces,  and  when  he 
sought  advice  from  Alison  he  hoped  also  to  sow  some 
seed  that  would  spring  up  in  the  Christ-love  and  glad- 
den her  life.  The  talk  between  them  went  from 
Sararose  to  religion  and  from  religion  to  Sararose. 

The  little  sister,  afterwards,  never  understood  how 
her  act  of  desperate  folly  led  to  such  beneficent  re- 
sults. It  had  seemed  like  the  last  step  into  the  gulf } 
and  yet  she  had  come  to  dry  land.  She  did  not  know 
that  madness  of  revolt  teaches  the  tyrant  his  weak- 
ness. Enoch  was  expiating  tyranny.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
a  crop  of  his  own  sowing,  but  it  needed  Alison  to 
show  him  that  the  crop  was  of  his  sowing. 

"  Save  her !"  pleaded  Alison.  "  Will  you  save  her 
by  crushing  her  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  her  life  and 
her  soul  are  in  her  singing?" 

"  The  culture  of  the  voice,  what  is  that  worth  be- 
side the  culture  of  the  soul  ?" 

"  Can  the  soul  be  cultured  if  it  is  starved  ?" 

"  Starvation,  what  is  that  when  the  love  of  God 
makes  pure  ?" 

"  How  will  you  show  her  the  love  of  God  except 
by  the  love  of  man  ?  Does  man  deny  his  beloved 
what  she  lives  upon  ?  You  cannot  feed  Sararose 
upon  your  ideals.  They  are  not  her  ideals.  You 
cannot  impose  upon  her  your  morality.  It  is  not  her 
morality." 

"  Is  there  more  than  one  morality  ?" 

"  Surely,  surely,  Enoch.  Plato  may  not  blame 
Buddha,  nor  Buddha  Christ." 

"  Each  according  to  his  light,  Alison,  but  we  have 
the  Supreme  Light,  if  we  do  not  shut  our  eyes  to  it. 

331 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

Sararose  is  in  the  darkness,  and  therefore  she  does 
not  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"  And  will  you  lead  her  to  the  light,  Enoch  ?" 

"  I  will  teach  her  Christ,  if  I  may.  I  will  show 
her  the  salvation  of  the  cross." 

"  That  is  your  religion,  Enoch.  Perhaps  it  will 
not  be  hers." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.  Yes,  I  know ;  I  know 
you  are  not  a  believer  in  religion." 

"  Truly,  I  am  a  believer  in  religions,"  said  Alison, 
earnestly,  "  but  there  is  no  such  thing  as  religion. 
It  is  your  religion,  my  religion.  Religion,  like 
heaven,  is  personal,  individual;  each  one  must  find 
and  hold  to  his  own.  Your  religion  is  Christ  and  the 
four  gospels.  You  are  right." 

"  What  is  your  religion,  Alison  ?" 

Her  hands  trembled  in  her  lap.  She  folded  and 
then  unfolded  them  in  a  way  that  went  to  Enoch's 
heart. 

"  I  used  to  think  that  love  of  Richard  and  Mary 
was  my  religion.  I  am  not  so  sure  now." 

The  simplicity  of  her  self -revelation  was  touch- 
ing. She  did  not  dream  how  clear  a  revelation  it 
was. 

"  Why  are  you  not  so  sure  now  ?" 

Enoch's  questions,  so  direct  that  they  were  almost 
brutal,  were  yet  unfolded  with  an  exquisite  tender- 
ness by  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  Religion  is  what  one  wants  most,  what  makes 
one  better,"  said  Alison,  not  answering  Enoch,  but 
thinking.  "  Human  love  makes  this  one  better,  to 
sing  well  is  another's  happiness,  to  make  a  statue, 
to  raise  wheat — it  is  all  religion  if  one  wants  it  su- 
premely and  lives  up  to  it  sincerely." 

332 


Alison's   Advice 

"  One  ought  to  want  most  something  far  higher 
than  a  mere  personal  ambition." 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  not  what  one  ought,  but  what  one 
does  want  that  moulds  one's  life.  Besides,  I  do  not 
call  self-expression  a  mere  personal  ambition.  Self- 
expression  is  the  fulfilment  of  the  universe,  individ- 
uality is  God." 

"  But  self-expression  must,  of  necessity,  be  incom- 
plete. Human  love  is  too  often  insecure.  If  that 
be  our  religion  and  it  fails  us,  what  then  ?" 

"  What  then  ?"  Alison's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  Oh,  Enoch,  human  love  will  never  fail  us  if  we  do 
not  fail  in  human  love." 

"  What  of  the  breaking  hearts,"  asked  Enoch, 
"  and  what  of  forbidden  love  ?" 

There  came  a  long  silence  between  them,  those 
two  who  held  their  secret  each  from  the  other,  the 
secret  of  the  unbroken  bread  and  the  untouched  wine. 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  forbidden  love,"  was 
at  last  Alison's  solemn  reply. 

It  was  to  Enoch  the  echo  of  something  heard  be- 
fore; suddenly  the  room,  with  its  Pompeian  red 
walls,  the  tiled  fireplace,  the  Beata  Beatrix  above 
the  mantel,  Alison,  with  the  lace  across  her  bosom 
and  the  diamond  on  her  finger,  all  were  familiar. 
He  had  seen  them  all ;  he  had  heard  those  words  be- 
fore. 

True,  he  had  heard  them  before  in  the  lumber 
camp  at  dawn,  when  the  souls  of  the  sleepers  rose 
and  spoke  to  him,  and  that  was  what  they  had  said. 
Also,  the  flower  of  winter  dawn,  rose-colored  in  the 
virginal  white  woods  had  spoken  to  him  those  words. 
He  had  not  listened  then,  but  he  heard  them  and 
heeded  now.  One  never  knows  what  years  of  stony 

333 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

misunderstanding  have  gone  to  the  making  of  one 
crystal  moment  of  knowledge. 

A  great  weight  was  lifted  from  Enoch.  He  who 
had  come  to  teach  was  taught.  Then,  "  What  would 
you  have  me  do  with  Sararose  ?"  he  meekly  said. 

"  Let  her  work  out  her  own  life ;  free  her  from 
yourself,  that  she  mav  find  herself." 

"  Think  of  her  mad  folly." 

"  She  was  safe  —  with  Richard,"  said  Alison, 
proudly. 

"  Think  what  might  have  been  if  she  had  gone  else- 
where, if  I  had  not  known,  had  not  found  her?" 

"  Think  what  brought  her  to  it,"  said  Alison,  look- 
ing fearlessly  into  Enoch's  upright  eyes,  "  of  dread 
so  great  that  what  girls  should  dread  most  was  noth- 
ing to  her.  I  think  with  you,  Enoch,  that  she  is  in 
peril,  but  that  peril,  perhaps,  lies  in  the  very  bar- 
riers you  have  set  to  save  her.  There  is  no  one  so 
reckless  as  he  who  has  all  his  life  been  governed  by 
some  one  else's  conscience  and  then  finds  himself 
free." 

"  Would  you  have  me  leave  her  alone,  Alison ; 
alone,  and  so  light,  so  impressible,  so  emotional  ?" 

"  A  thousand  times  no,"  said  Alison.  "  Stay  with 
her,  be  a  brother  to  her,  but  not  a  master." 

"  I  had  thought,"  said  Enoch,  slowly,  "  that  she 
needed  the  lesson  of  self-denial ;  that  I  would  take 
her  to  the  mountains;  that  I  would  stay  with  her 
there." 

"  You  would  not  thwart  your  own  life  in  thwart- 
ing hers  also,"  said  Alison,  tremblingly,  for  she  real- 
ized the  depth  of  Enoch's  conviction.  "  Stay  with 
her,  love  her,  cherish  her,  leave  her  free." 

Then  did  it  flash  upon  Enoch,  imperfectly  as  vet, 
334 


Alison's  Advice 

that  the  crop  was  of  his  own  sowing.  A  brother, 
but  not  a  master. 

"  I  am  a  lost  soul,"  he  said.  "  I  will  stay  with 
her,  and  save  her  and  save  myself,  too." 

As  they  parted,  said  Enoch,  musingly,  to  Alison, 
"  You  said  there  was  no  such  thing  as  forbidden 
love." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  child's  simple  look  into 
his  eyes. 

The  great  moral  earnestness  and  simplicity  of  the 
man  was  to  her  like  drinking  from  a  deep,  clear 
mountain  spring. 

She  found  in  him  the  strength  of  the  hills,  but  she 
herself  was  the  morning  light  that  bathed  them  in 
serenity. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
The  Impossible   Punch-Bowl 

THEY  were  having  a  private  vaudeville  show  at 
the  Velasquez  (in  somebody's  studio).  An  Irish 
poet  read  erotic  verse,  rising  to  his  tip-toes  at  the  re- 
frain like  an  ecstatic  blackbird.  Then  he  came  down 
from  the  stage  to  talk  about  golf  with  a  Mephisto- 
phelian  girl  in  red.  Dick  Hollister  did  a  negro  min- 
strel, introducing  several  exotic  jokes  and  labored 
puns,  with  a  casual  manner  and  a  gurgling  laugh 
supposedly  African.  The  masterful  ease  of  his  turn 
won  him  an  excellent  "  hand."  A  fat,  silver  -  gilt 
blonde,  in  white  stockings  and  a  blue-sashed  baby  pin- 
afore, impersonated  in  monologue  a  naughty  child. 
The  arriere  pensee  of  naughty  maturity  was  in  her 
rolling  eyes  and  suppressed  giggle.  She  was  partic- 
ularly appreciated  by  the  row  of  nonchalant,  smooth- 
faced men  who  posed  against  the  palms  in  the  back 
of  the  hall,  and  were  pointed  out  as  celebrities  to  out- 
siders who  had  paid  their  two  dollars  for  the  even- 
ing's vaudeville.  The  fat,  blonde  lady  in  the  silly 
slippers  was  known  to  all  the  men  as  a  jolly  good 
fellow.  Sararose,  deliciously  the  jeune  fille  in  her 
white  frock  and  black  velvet  streamers,  wearing  her 
hair  in  two  long  braids  of  burnished  copper,  sang 
some  little  songs  with  a  naivete  that  completed  her 

336 


The    Impossible    Punch-Bowl 

conquest  of  Lindsay  Nixon.  The  touching  girlish- 
ness  of  her  gown  and  poses  had  been  carefully 
thought  out  for  her  by  Mrs.  Ned  Hollister.  Sararose 
was  a  ready  pupil.  Nixie  led  her  off,  after  the 
songs,  to  the  improvised  greenroom  behind  the  cur- 
tains. 

There  was  a  ballet  in  which  Mrs.  Ned  wore  wheat 
around  her  forehead  and  led  the  seasons.  Somebody 
else's  picturesque  boy,  with  Florentine  square-cut 
hair,  sat  emblematically  in  the  hollow  of  Mrs.  Ned's 
Demeter  arm.  This  was  vociferously  applauded,  for 
almost  everybody  had  a  sister  or  sweetheart  in  the 
mazes  of  the  symbolic  dance,  and  Mrs.  Ned  was 
known  to  have  worn  away  a  box  of  pencils  over  the 
argument. 

Then  Ysobel  danced  the  Sevillana.  She  swept  and 
swirled,  rattling  her  castanets  in  long,  free  curves, 
with  her  black  lace  draperies  dipping  and  twisting. 
Through  half-closed  lids  her  sleepy,  dangerous  eyes 
shot  fire,  and  languid  lips,  half  open,  smiled  and 
smiled. 

"  There  is  no  other  woman  in  the  Velasquez  who 
could  do  the  Sevillaiia,"  remarked  Rathbun  to  Nixie, 
"  and  you  have  about  every  type  here  in  this  cara- 
vanserai." 

"  She  has  the  Moorish  figure,  hasn't  she  ?"  said 
Nixie,  "  little  ankles,  superb  hips,  and  a  young  girl's 
firm,  round  bosom.  How  beautiful  Alison  is  as  the 
spirit  of  poetry,  with  the  laurel  wreath  and  those  elo- 
quent lines  of  her  face." 

The  outsiders  had  mostly  gone  now,  and  the  Velas- 
quez crowd  were  dancing.  Some  eight  or  ten  couples 
were  gathered  round  the  big  punch-bowl  on  the  edge 
of  the  low  stage.  The  bowl  was  an  extraordinary  de- 
Y  337 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

sign  of  Dixie's,  women  diving,  half  floating,  head 
downward  in  greenish  water,  the  faces  at  point  of 
central  circumference,  the  arms  and  hair  streaming 
together  in  dank  coils  towards  the  base,  and  the 
spread  feet  forming  the  upper  rim.  It  was  executed 
in  faience.  The  consensus  of  educated  opinion  call- 
ed it  impossible.  Loving  critics  said  he  had  stood  on 
his  head  to  do  it,  and  quoted  Bab  ballads  to  him. 

"  Impossible,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Richard  to  Ysobel,  as 
he  ladled  out  the  very  strong  punch  after  a  dance. 

"  On  the  contrary,  quite  reasonable,"  answered 
Ysobel,  "  if  all  art,  as  they  say,  is  a  growth  from 
within  out.  After  this  punch — who  mixed  it,  by- 
the-way? — one  naturally  sees  things  upside  down." 

They  floated  off  together  in  a  waltz.  Margery 
Rathbun  and  another  woman,  sitting  out  a  dance  to- 
gether, nodded  towards  them. 

"  It's  a  pity,"  said  the  woman  under  her  breath. 
"  Ysobel's  leading  him  a  pretty  dance  in  more  senses 
than  one." 

"  It's  a  shame,"  said  Margery,  who,  although  of 
the  Velasquez  crowd,  was  not  with  them.  An  ascetic 
home  training  had  implanted  certain  ineffaceable 
scruples. 

Then  they  both  looked  towards  Alison,  with  the 
polished  wreath  across  her  milky  brows  and  grape- 
vine hair.  She  sat  at  one  side,  talking  with  Sararose 
and  Nixie.  The  Ruddle-Hollister  affair  had  just 
reached  that  point  when  every  one  knew,  but  no  one 
knew  that  the  others  knew,  and,  least  of  all,  did  the 
principals. 

It  was  talked  of  sub  rosa,  and  jealously  guarded 
from  outsiders,  as  well  as  such  things  can  be  guard- 
ed, for,  at  best,  a  secret  guarded  is  only  temporiz- 

338 


The    Impossible    Punch-Bowl 

ing.  However,  it  is  remarkable  how  such  temporiz- 
ing may  be  extended.  His  friends  were  very  loyal 
to  Dick  Hollister,  and  every  one  loved  Alison. 

"  There's  an  affair  I  like  better,"  said  the  woman, 
indicating  Sararose  and  Nixie. 

The  artist's  dust  -  colored,  narrow  face,  usually 
opaque  and  bored,  was  played  upon  by  many  lights. 

"  Charming,"  said  Margery,  with  the  complacency 
of  the  match-maker.  "  And  we  brought  them  to- 
gether. Now  Alison  is  ready  to  go,  and  Dick  won't 
be  torn  away  from  Ysobel." 

The  two  women  watched  their  world  with  the  quiet 
shrewdness  that  comes  of  long  cosmopolitanism. 

"  Just  as  I  thought.  The  Ned  Hollisters  are  go- 
ing to  take  her  home.  Here's  your  brother  coming 
for  you." 

Thus  do  we  act  out  our  little  lives  in  dumb  show, 
severely  ignorant  of  the  spectators  that  interpret  ev- 
ery gesture  into  significant  lines. 

"  Ysobel  and  Richard  will  stay  on  till  the  wee  sma' 
hours.  They  will  have  high  jinks  in  this  studio 
when  only  the  inner  circle  remains.  Come,  Sara- 
rose,  even  we  are  outer  integuments.  Oh,  Nixie  is 
to  be  one  of  us  home?  Tant  mieux!" 

Mary  had  a  little  room  next  to  Alison's  in  the 
Central  Park  West  apartment.  After  Alison  had 
gone  to  bed  a  small  white  figure  crept  into  her 
room. 

"  Are  you  all  alone  ?  May  I  get  in  and  cuddle  up 
to  you  ?  Hasn't  Dickie  come  home  yet  ?  I  suppose 
big  men  loves  to  come  home  late  better  zan  ladies? 
They  aren't  afraid  of  the  brack  night,  be  they?" 

Mary  had  a  dear  little  way  of  transposing  and  gen- 
erally mixing  the  sounds  of  her  consonants.  Alison 

339 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

drew  her  against  her  breast  with  passionate  ca- 
resses. 

"  I  'ould  be  awful  aflaid  of  the  brack  night, 
wouldn't  you,  Alison  ?  Does  ze  witch  ladies  get  peo- 
ple in  ze  city,  or  only  in  the  great  big  woods  ?" 

Mary  had  just  reached  the  questioning  age,  when 
the  "  scheme  of  things  entire  "  passed  under  her  won- 
dering eye  for  constant  investigation. 

"  Why  is  your  cheeks  all  wetted,  Alison  ?  Have 
you  been  naughty  and  dying?" 

"  No,  sweetheart.     Be  good  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  Then  you  have  been  solly  and  dying.  I'm  solly, 
too,"  said  Mary,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  Eternal  Mother  in  her  expressed  itself  by  lit- 
tle comforting  arms  about  Alison's  neck. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
The    Dream    Trail 

THESE  pleasant  spring  days,  it  seemed  that  the 
whole  town  turned  itself  inside  out  for  a  walk.  Fifth 
Avenue  led  the  procession,  with  a  multitude  of  gay 
women,  more  or  less  occupied  with  their  own  clothes 
and  each  other's,  escorted  by  conspicuously  well-dress- 
ed men,  more  or  less  occupied  with  their  own  ladies 
or  each  other's.  The  most  audacious  of  the  season's 
crop  of  hats  had  been  transferred  from  milliners' 
stalks  to  feminine  heads,  and  only  a  few  hopeless 
eccentricities  now  blossomed  in  show-windows,  where 
they  were  gazed  at  by  out-of-town  visitors  and  blue- 
coated  boys,  with  special  delivery  letters.  A  shining 
stream  of  horses  and  carriages  filled  the  street. 

From  Fifth  Avenue  east  and  west  all  the  avenues 
had  their  kaleidoscopic  processions,  rapidly  changing 
in  type  with  each  square's  geographical  demarkation, 
from  the  Sixth  Avenue  shoppers,  with  their  paper 
parcels,  and  weary  children  tagging  after  the  dusty, 
parental  skirts,  and  Eighth  Avenue's  checkered  popu- 
lation, habitues  of  delicatessen  shops  and  corner  sa- 
loons, to  the  East  Side,  with  Lexington  Avenue's  quo- 
rum of  eagle-faced  men  and  black-eyed  women,  with 
big  hats  and  spangly  fronts,  and  remote  Avenue  A, 
with  its  groups  of  shouting  children  in  the  middle 

341 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

of  the  street,  and  hatless  women  carrying  sausages 
home  for  supper. 

Across  the  avenues  wound  Broadway,  a  country 
of  itself,  with  a  race  and  type  all  its  own ;  the  women 
wore  street  dresses  of  daring  or  delicate  tints,  un- 
known on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  carmine  cheeks  were 
suggestively  veiled  with  the  latest  fad  in  gauzes. 
Young  girls  walked  by  threes,  laughing  loudly,  and 
bunches  of  men  by  cigar-shops  or  hotel  entrances 
along  the  Rialto  inspected  coolly.  "  Did  my  turn," 
"  got  a  hand,"  and  "  booked  for  the  heavy,"  came 
in  whispers  here  and  there  from  the  genial,  expansive 
"  profession,"  who  loitered  about  lobbies,  or  poured 
out  from  the  agencies.  It  was  the  season  when  auto- 
mobile coats  were  worn  by  those  who  never  ride  in 
automobiles.  The  Broadway  girl  sported  a  mannish 
coat,  loose  of  cut  and  gray  in  color,  and  the  Fifth 
Avenue  woman  affected  serpentine  effects  of  ostenta- 
tious simplicity.  There  was  a  general  air  of  exhilar- 
ation. Despite  the  proverbial  lassitude  of  spring, 
every  one  seemed  starting  out  on  a  new  project. 
Now  and  again,  in  pitiful  contrast  with  the  general 
cheer,  a  poor  waif  of  a  woman  clung  to  the  inner 
edge  of  the  sidewalk,  in  sad  clothes  that  had  not  even 
been  "  made  over,"  that  sagged  at  the  hem,  and 
gaped  at  the  waist,  with  a  tousled  winter  hat  over  the 
wreck  of  her  hair,  or  a  seedy  man  trailed  along  the 
edge  of  the  gutter,  with  cracks  in  his  shoes,  and  a 
greasy  coat  buttoned  around  his  collarless  neck.  On 
a  freshly  washed,  shining  afternoon  of  May,  such  hu- 
man left-overs  seem  morally  impossible.  Their  pathos 
waxes  almost  grotesque  by  its  spectacular  lack  of  har- 
mony. 

Pansies  were  out  and  fountains  splashing  in  the 
312 


The   Dream   Trail 

square.  Benches  were  full  of  idle  men  sunning  them- 
selves, and  reading  yesterday's  papers,  and  the  walks 
were  gay  with  bonneted  children  and  cheerful 
mothers.  Violets  and  roses  were  sold  for  a  song 
at  street-corners,  and  lilacs  and  apple-blossoms  were 
hawked  about  the  avenues.  Some  of  the  cab-horses 
around  Madison  Square  had  been  frisked  out  with 
faded  roses  below  the  ears.  Little  newsboys  darted 
hither  and  thither,  with  damp  piles  of  evening  pa- 
pers, hugely  lettered,  and  the  usual  black  line  of  peo- 
ple made  themselves  into  a  human  frieze  about  the 
glass  windows  of  the  Moorish  newspaper  building  at 
Herald  Square.  The  news  -  stands  were  gay  with 
poster  covers  of  spring  magazines,  and  within  those 
covers  were  sad  little  poems  about  the  scent  of  the 
violet  bed  and  the  memory  of  the  dead,  apple-blooms 
and  tombs,  and  pictures  of  pretty  women  who  would 
like  to  be  well  known,  in  various  photographic  poses 
of  pensiveness  or  disdain. 

As  Alison  left  the  house,  Mary  preceded  her,  look- 
ing adorable  in  her  light-blue  sun-bonnet,  and  rolling 
her  hoop  with  admirable  skill.  A  street  peddler  cried 
strawberries  in  a  long,  mellow  roar.  This  was  spring 
in  the  city — gay,  heterogeneous,  kaleidoscopic,  city 
spring.  It  was  not  the  spring  that  Alison  longed  for, 
but  it  had  potency  enough  to  thrill  with  a  sense  of 
brooks  unbound  somewhere,  butterflies  opening  some- 
where slow,  splendid  wings,  of  shy  flowers  breaking 
the  soil  in  some  dark,  fragrant  wood,  and  the  breath 
of  spruce  buds  somewhere  wafted  abroad  on  the  un- 
thinking hills. 

It  was  spring  for  Enoch,  also,  but  not  the  spring 
that  he  knew.  Spring  on  the  lower  East  Side  is  a  hec- 
tic affair  of  stale  vegetables,  jammed  streets,  fever- 

343 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

ish  screams  of  playing  children,  hysterical  chattering 
of  women  with  street  vendors,  and  gardens  of  calicoes 
and  red  and  purple  ribbons  in  sidewalk  booths. 
Enoch,  when  he  did  not  think  of  Alison,  thought  of  a 
bath  in  the  Elder  River,  of  a  colored  mist  of  rain- 
bows around  Lost  Inn,  and  of  the  secret  scent  of  twin- 
flowers  by  Witchhopple  Brook.  He  spoke  one  even- 
ing to  an  unresponsive  audience  in  the  little  mission 
chapel  on  "  The  Love  of  Trees."  It  was  a  subject 
Alison  had  suggested  to  him,  but  it  did  not  take  with 
the  East-Siders. 

Enoch  had  a  dream  that  night  which  more  than 
compensated  him  for  the  evening's  failure.  He 
dreamed  of  the  kindly  trees.  The  Angel  of  the 
Hills  came  down  to  comfort  him. 

He  climbed  Mount  Taseco,  climbed  up  through 
dark  and  cool  and  rosy  filtered  sunlight,  splashed 
like  thrown  coins  on  the  forest  floor.  But  he  could 
not  hit  the  trail,  and  he  came  against  obstacles,  giant 
windfalls,  huge,  slippery  bowlders,  and  briery  under- 
brush. In  his  waking  hours  he  would  have  known 
that  there  was  no  trail,  but  in  his  dreams  he  sought 
and  sought.  At  last  he  heard  one  call  him  through 
the  trees.  He  came  upon  a  great  stone  dripping 
with  moisture,  and  in  its  shadow  a  spring,  clear  as 
a  cairngorm,  with  a  green  rain  of  maiden-hair  ferns 
around  its  edge.  There  she  stood,  with  one  hand 
upon  the  great  stone  and  the  other  outstretched  to 
him.  Then  he  knew  he  had  hit  the  trail.  He  took 
her  hand,  and  they  went  upward  together.  Enoch 
cried  out  in  his  happiness,  and  drew  some  one  to 
his  breast  in  man's  good,  simple,  passionate  possess- 
ing, and  there  she  clung,  in  woman's  simple,  passion- 
ate surrender.  It  was  all  a  bit  confused  after  that, 

344 


The   Dream   Trail 

with  the  sun  from  Mount  Taseco  pouring  into  his 
eyes.  When  he  woke,  he  still  felt  the  dear  weight 
within  his  arms,  the  dear,  imagined  weight  he  had 
never  known.  Ah,  God!  to  dream  and  dream,  and 
never  to  have  at  all ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
The    Road    to    Rome 

ENOCH,  after  that  dream,  realized  the  meaning  of 
his  restlessness.  He  saw  Alison  too  often,  and  was 
eating  his  heart  out  for  her  between  whiles.  Like 
a  man  who  lives  on  drugs  is  he  who  feeds  on  an  un- 
satisfied love. 

"  This  is  not  living,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  it  is 
waiting  for  the  next  time." 

Now,  waiting  for  the  next  time  is  the  most  waste- 
ful motive  possible  for  life.  It  plays  havoc  with  ac- 
complishment and  fritters  away  the  very  soul. 

"  She  said  no  love  was  forbidden.  I  took  her  word 
for  it,  and  have  tried  to  live  on  the  forbidden.  But 
I  want  the  forbidden.  God  help  me.  I  will  go  back 
to  my  hills,  and  put  all  my  strength  into  the  saw- 
mill and  the  river-drive,  and  let  the  East  Side  go." 

Then  he  knew  that  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  souls 
nor  of  Sararose  that  he  had  spent  the  past  months  in 
New  York.  He  had  been  deceiving  himself.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  and  found  it  was  time  for  him 
to  go  to  the  Boys'  Club  Room.  It  was  Thursday. 
Alison's  day,  and  he  always  walked  with  her  through 
the  tortuosities  of  the  foreign  streets,  across  the  Bow- 
ery, and  then  he  would  put  her  on  a  Madison  Avenuo 
car,  spinning  arrogantly  around  the  Grand  Street 

34(5 


The   Road   to   Rome 

curve,  like  a  comet  from  another  world,  past  the 
Turkish  rhubarb  and  Chinese  nuts  of  sidewalk  booths 
and  the  strange  jargon  of  sellers  and  buyers.  There 
is  a  grotesqueness  about  a  carload  of  humanity,  mu- 
tually oblivious,  yet  sitting  shoulder  to  shoulder,  or 
facing  each  other  for  the  space  of  an  hour,  and  with 
no  more  sense  of  kinship  than  so  many  stones.  Some- 
times all  of  a  sudden  an  instinct  within  one  cries. 
"  Why,  these  are  people,  really  people,"  and  you  look 
at  your  opposite  neighbor  again,  and  if  he  winces 
or  drops  his  eyes,  then  you  may  know  that  at  the 
self -same  instant  you  are  a  person  to  him,  and  the 
discomfort  of  human  recognition  has  been  established 
between  you. 

Enoch  stood  within  the  door  watching  the  closing 
events  of  the  afternoon.  It  had  been  the  tumultuous 
occasion  of  the  semi-annual  election  of  officers  of  the 
Junior  Order  of  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
The  name  was  a  relic  of  the  romanticism  of  Alison's 
predecessor,  combined,  or  rather  clashing,  with  the 
consensus  of  opinion  of  last  year's  club.  The  club 
had  almost  gone  to  pieces  last  year  under  the  strain 
of  a  too-decorative  up-town  patronage,  which  had  in- 
terfered with  the  racy  virility  of  Russo-Jewish  lead- 
ership. The  new  president,  one  Abraham  Moscovitz- 
ky,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  long  table,  wearing  an 
almost  visible  toga  of  authority  and  wielding  the 
gavel  with  the  magnificence  of  young  despotism. 
Mrs.  Hollister  sat  at  the  other  end,  at  her  ease,  and 
with  the  boys  about  her  at  ease,  not  the  insolent  ease 
of  familiarity,  but  deferential  ease  of  understanding;. 
She  had  introduced  among  them  the  crafts  of  basket- 
weaving  and  bent-iron  work.  There  is  nothing  like 
fellow-craftsmanship  for  a  solid  basis  of  respect.  Her 

347 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

predecessors  had  worn  parlor  faces,  talked  flim-flam, 
and  were  "  dead  easy  "  on  tricks. 

"  This  meeting  will  now  come  to  order,"  said 
Abraham  Moscovitzky,  assuming  the  rights  of  office 
with  severity.  "  The  meeting  will  now  be  opened  by 
a  motion  to  adjourn." 

This  slip  did  not  pass  unnoticed  by  either  the  re- 
tiring president  or  unsuccessful  rival  candidate.  Ali- 
son, meeting  their  glances,  smiled  in  sympathy,  and 
they  agreed  between  themselves,  afterwards,  that  she 
was  no  lobster. 

A  motion  was  made  and  seconded. 

"  I  t'ird  de  motion,"  said  the  wag  of  the  club,  with 
unendurable  triteness,  which  the  thunderous  gavel 
of  Moscovitzky  promptly  quenched. 

Then  they  caught  sight  of  Enoch,  and  order  be- 
came disorder  as  they  clamored  for  a  story.  They 
were  of  the  age  and  the  heredity  and  the  ward  when 
bloodshed  interests  more  than  peace,  the  wars  of 
things  more  than  the  loves  of  things.  Enoch  com- 
promised by  a  story  of  adventure,  a  broken  dam,  a 
log- jam  uncaged  and  rushing  on  with  the  walls  of  a 
freshet  to  attack  a  little  town,  and  a  wild  horseback 
ride  that  saved  the  hamlet  from  destruction.  Ali- 
son knew  that  the  rider  was  himself,  and  her  blood 
was  stirred. 

The  boys  recounted  the  tale  among  themselves  in 
paraphrases,  Yiddish  English  and  Bowery  slang,  till 
by  the  time  they  had  reached  their  several  homes  it 
was  already  a  classic,  another  book  in  the  Odyssey 
of  which  Enoch  was  both  bard  and  hero. 

Alison  and  Enoch,  walking  thoughtfully  west- 
ward, passed  the  outer  fringe  of  a  street  crowd.  The 
nucleus  was  unseen. 

348 


The   Road  to   Rome 

"  Ain't  nawthin'  but  a  scrap,  teacher,"  said  one  of 
Alison's  young  friends. 

The  social  instinct  that  settlement  life  develops 
would  not  let  them  pass  on  till  they  had  discovered 
two  mites  of  boys  savagely  pommelling  each  other 
to  the  immense  delight  of  a  bloodthirsty  amphithe- 
atre. A  murtherin'  Micky  and  a  furrin'  Dago  were 
the  combatants,  and  their  fellow-countrymen  egged 
them  on  with  the  fulness  of  racial  fury. 

"  They  will  hurt  each  other,  the  poor  children," 
said  Alison.  "  Stop  them,  Enoch." 

"  They  cayn't  shtop,  teacher,"  replied  Alison's 
communicative  friend,  equally  ready  to  listen  and  to 
answer.  His  small,  freckled  face  looked  solemnly 
up  to  hers,  as  if  a  decree  of  Kismet  were  being  slan- 
dered. 

"Why  not?" 

"  There's  'fteen  cents  up,"  he  answered,  in  the  awe- 
struck tone  of  one  who  speaks  of  unaccustomed  mill- 
ions. 

Enoch  laughed  as  they  walked  on. 

"  What  extremely  personal  and  relative  things 
cants  are,"  he  remarked.  "  If  I  say  I  cant  who 
dares  tell  me  I  can,  and  yet  how  God  must  smile  at 
man-made  impossibilities." 

All  roads  lead  to  Rome,  that  spiritual  Rome  which 
is  the  goal  of  our  thoughts.  It  matters  not  what  book 
we  read,  what  fair  or  painful  sight  we  see,  what  text 
the  preacher  takes,  what  play  we  hear,  what  trivial 
theme  for  dinner-table  talk,  they  do  but  lead,  as  if 
by  fateful  conspiracy,  to  the  one  goal  of  our  thoughts, 
our  Rome.  All  roads  lead  to  Rome. 

Enoch's  speech  shot  an  after  -  thought  of  fire 
through  his  heart.  Impossibility.  It  was  battling 

349 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

with  impossibility  that  had  wrecked  his  sleep  for 
many  nights;  he  had  lived  in  torment  for  the  last 
months.  Was  the  impossibility  man-made  or  God- 
made?  Ah,  Enoch,  how  you  have  changed  since  a 
year  ago.  To  love  another's  wife,  a  man-made  im- 
possibility ! 

"  Yet,"  said  Enoch  to  himself,  "  I  am  between  two 
impossibilities,  a  must  and  a  can't.  I  must  stop  lov- 
ing her,  and  I  can't  stop  loving  her." 

"  Alison,"  said  he,  aloud — they  had  called  each 
other  by  their  first  names  ever  since  that  terrible 
morning — "  which  is  stronger,  a  must  or  a  can't  ?" 

Alison,  too,  had  been  travelling  the  road  to  Rome, 
and  was  staring  with  frightened  eyes  into  impossi- 
bility. Outwardly,  one  saw  a  woman  of  buoyant  car- 
riage, with  clear  rings  of  color  in  the  olive  cheeks, 
blown  black  hair  in  a  charming  tangle,  and  dark  eyes 
somewhat  abstracted.  Inwardly,  she  had  reached 
that  blank  wall,  where  once  she  thought  there  was  a 
gate.  She  had  ceased  to  love  Richard.  She  feared 
that  some  day  she  would  hate  him.  She  knew  that 
in  his  way  he  loved  her  still.  She  guessed  also 
that  faithfulness  was  not  a  law  in  his  religion  of 
love. 

"  Must  it  be  for  always,  and  always,  and  always  ?" 
she  asked  herself. 

There  is  something  terrible  in  an  always.  It  is 
never  a  cool,  middling  thing.  It  is  said  with  clinch- 
ed teeth  or  with  glowing  lips. 

Then  Enoch's  question  came,  startling  her  like  an 
unlooked-for  sign-post  on  her  lonely  road  to  Rome. 

"  Which  is  stronger,  a  must  or  a  can't  ?" 

"  God's  must  is  stronger  than  man's  can't." 

"I  believe  it,"  said  Enoch;  ''man's  can't  may 
350 


The   Road  to   Rome 

stand  in  the  way  for  a  little  while,  but  in  the  end 
God's  law  prevails." 

"  And  the  torment  comes,"  Alison  said,  "  when  we 
don't  put  ourselves  in  harmony  with  the  universal 
decrees." 

"  How  unconscious  she  is,"  thought  Enoch,  look- 
ing at  her  heightened  color  and  the  fringe  of  eye- 
lash as  she  walked  beside  him. 

She  seemed  to  him  almost  cruel  that  she  could 
walk  so  near  him  and  not  know  how  his  heart  beat 
for  her. 

"  But  then,"  Alison's  voice  continued,  "  we  are 
not  to  blame,  only  to  be  pitied.  We  do  not  learn 
these  universal  decrees,  except,  sometimes,  by  tor- 
ment. It  is  ignorance,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  Enoch  replied,  abruptly,  for 
God's  must  seemed  clear  to  him  that  moment,  and 
he  took  an  inexorable  resolve  which  set  his  steps  at  a 
furious  pace. 

He  forged  ahead  of  Alison  by  perhaps  a  half- 
square's  length  when  he  remembered  himself  and 
her.  He  looked  back  to  see  her  laughing  and  de- 
spairing behind  him.  After  that  they  were  quite 
commonplace  till  Enoch  put  her  on  the  yellow  car, 
with  its  irrelevant,  incurious  load  of  souls  and  bodies. 

Enoch  walked  up-town  to  spend  the  evening  with 
his  sister.  A  remarkable  change  had  come  over  the 
girl  since  the  night  when  she  had  stood  on  the  edge 
of  disaster.  Some  natures  require  the  touch  of  ad- 
venture, adventure  in  the  broad,  undesired  sense,  to 
bring  them  to  themselves.  Sometimes  it  seems  the 
merest  casualty  which  way  the  adventure  ends.  A 
straw  will  decide.  But  that  decisive  straw  has  the 
momentum  of  mountains.  The  chastening  effect  of 

351 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

a  great  fear,  the  dignifying  effect  of  trust  reposed  in 
her,  showed  in  her  face  and  manner.  Also  the  se- 
cret, the  beginning  without  a  sequel  between  her  and 
Richard,  had  its  mighty  mission  in  bidding  her  be- 
ware. 

We  pray  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  for  He 
has  also  the  power  and  sometimes  the  purpose  to 
lead  us  there. 

"  Lead  us  into  temptation  and  save  us  therefrom, 
that  we  afterwards  may  know  and  beware." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
A   Repenting  and  a  Temptation 

"  Do  vou  know,  Dick,"  said  Ysobel,  "  people  are 
talking  about  us?" 

"  What  do  we  care  ?" 

"  I  don't  care,  but  you  do." 

"  What  are  they  saying  ?" 

"  Some  things  that  are  true,  which  is  bad  enough." 

"  Ysobel,  penitent !" 

"  And  some  things  that  aren't  true,  which  is 
worse." 

Ysobel  repeated  her  words  slowly,  and  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  Why  are  you  telling  me  this,  Ysobel  ?  Haven't 
we  enjoyed  each  other  ?  People  will  always  talk." 

"  Do  you  love  your  wife  ?" 

"  Heavens !    You  know  I  love  her !" 

"  Does  she  know  that  you  do  ?" 

"  Ysobel,  there's  something  come  between  Alison 
and  me.  When  she's  with  me,  she's  miles  away. 
She  leans  her  elbow  on  the  table  and  thinks.  She 
thinks  a  devilish  deal  too  much.  I'm  not  making 
her  happy.  She's  disappointed,  and  I'm  dashed  if  I 
know  what's  the  matter !" 

"  So  you're  restless,  and  come  to  me  to  amuse 
you." 

z  353 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

"  Ysobel !    But  I  believe  you're  right." 

"  Meanwhile,  people  are  talking,  with  one  eyebrow 
elevated,  and  Alison's  thinking,  her  elbow  on  the 
table." 

"  What's  to  be  done,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Supposing  the  talk  reached  Alison,  and  you  knew 
it,  then  what  ?" 

"  Then  what  ?"  Richard  started  to  his  feet  in  a 
savage  fashion,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to 
smash  all  the  bric-a-brac  in  Mrs.  Ruddle's  apartment. 
"Then  what?" 

"  You  would  never  want  to  see  my  face  again !" 
cried  Ysobel,  curtly,  sternly. 

Richard  wheeled  to  the  divan,  where  Ysobel  had 
drawn  herself  up  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth !    Does  Alison  know  ?" 

"  Go  to  her !"  cried  Ysobel.  "  Find  out  for  your- 
self !  She  would  be  blind,  deaf,  dumb,  and  innocent 
as  a  babe  unborn  if  she  did  not  at  least  suspect !" 

"  Alison  never   suspects !" 

"  Then  if  she  doesn't  suspect,  she  has  stopped  lov- 
ing you !" 

"  I  can't  stand  this  from  you,  Ysobel.  You're 
the  very  d —  I  beg  your  pardon.  You're  tortur- 
ing me.  You've  led  me  on  at  your  own  pace.  You've 
held  me  up  to  the  world's  ridicule  and  my  wife's 
contempt,  and  now  you're  laughing  at  me.  God  in 
heaven,  I'd  rather  die  than  bring  dishonor  to  Ali- 
son!" 

Richard's  morality  abhorred  the  name  of  the  thing 
more  than  the  thing.  By  the  same  code,  the  woman 
who  is  discovered  sinks  lower  than  the  woman  who 
sins. 

"  Go  to  her,"  said  Ysobel,  dryly.  "  Go  to  her  be- 
354 


A  Repenting  and  a  Temptation 

fore  it's  too  late.  She  had  rather  hear  it  from  your 
lips  than  another's.  There !  I've  done  preaching  for 
a  day.  Pour  me  out  some  cognac  before  you  leave. 
Thank  you.  Good-bye !" 

Richard  seized  his  hat,  and  left  the  building  in  a 
hurry. 

"  Must  I  tell  her  ?"  he  thought.  Self-flagellation 
was  new  to  him,  but  to  live  in  daily  suspense  was 
worse  yet.  He  was  too  frank  to  conceal  from  his 
wife  his  fear  of  her  surmises.  Ysobel  had  sown  the 
fear.  As  long  as  he  had  been  going  it  blind,  he 
could  meet  Alison's  eyes  candidly,  in  the  old  way, 
across  the  breakfast  -  table.  But  now — it  would  be 
impossible.  Never  again!  How  thankful  he  was 
that  there  was  no  more  to  tell  than — there  was. 
Would  Alison  believe  him  ?  With  the  purity  of  her 
nature  she  could  never  think  such  evil.  Not  unless 
— unless — it  came  to  her  first  through  some  one  else 
— in  some  other  way.  God  forbid !  Richard  quick- 
ened his  pace.  It  was  evening.  He  had  reached  the 
tall,  glittering  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Fifty- 
ninth  Street,  where  the  huge  hotels  tower  splendidly 
above  the  park  gates,  and  the  endless  throng  of  vehi- 
cles and  cars  makes  a  hopeless  tangle  for  the  pe- 
destrian. Richard  swung  across  the  street,  unheed- 
ing the  automobiles  and  runabouts  that  bore  down 
upon  him  arrogantly. 

If  once  the  knowledge  should  come  to  Alison,  in 
the  wrong  way,  and  she  should  be  roused  to  belief, 
what  a  staggering  blow  it  would  be  to  her !  Would 
she  ever  trust  him,  love  him,  again  ? 

At  about  the  time  that  Richard  was  calling  on  Mrs. 
Ruddle,  in  the  late  afternoon,  Alison  sat  in  the  li- 
brary, reading,  or,  rather,  trying  to  read.  A  book 

355 


The  Strength   of  the    Hills 

is  one  of  the  most  ineffective  distractions  possible. 
One  may  turn  the  pages  mechanically,  with  the  auto- 
matic mind  following  sentence  after  sentence,  while 
underneath  the  self-conscious  mind  pursues  its  train 
of  thought  undisturbed.  Then  the  self  -  conscious 
mind  will  be  downed  no  longer,  breaks  through  the 
thin,  superimposed  layer  of  automatic  mind,  and  you 
fling  the  book  on  the  floor  tempestuously,  crying,  "  I 
don't  know  a  word  I've  been  reading!" 

Little  Mary  aroused  Alison  by  coming  to  her  knee 
and  saying,  "  Read  me  somezings,  Alison." 

Alison  turned  the  pages  of  the  Spanish  Ballads. 
She  had  been  trying  to  think  that  life  was  the  same 
to  her  as  when  she  and  Dick  had  read  ballads  together 
in  the  out-of-door  studio. 

"  That's  a  cunning  littly  pome,"  said  Mary,  peer- 
ing over  the  edge  of  the  book,  and  putting  a  dimpled 
finger  on  the  page.  Mary  could  speak  very  plainly 
now,  and  was  making  great  progress  with  her  primer. 

"  It's  a  Spanish  ballad,"  said  Alison : 

"  Since  for  kissing  thee,  Minguillo, 

Mother  scolds  me  all  the  day, 
Let  me  have  it  quickly,  darling; 
Give  me  back  my  kiss,  I  pray." 

She  could  see  Richard's  face,  and  the  laughing 
red  light  in  his  eyes.  The  memory  remained,  but 
the  thrill  of  the  moment  had  gone.  Not  all  the  striv- 
ing of  a  lifetime  can  recreate  one  fleeting  minute's 
spell.  Alison  smiled  away  the  yearning,  and  leaned 
to  Mary's  wild-rose  face. 

"  I'll  show  you,  Mary.  Kiss  me,  and  I'll  take 
it  back  again." 

356 


A  Repenting  and  a  Temptation 

The  two  sisters  acted  out  the  ballad,  with  pretty 
laughter  between  them : 

"  If  we  have  done  aught  amiss, 
Let's  undo  it  while  we  may, 
Quickly  give  me  back  the  kiss, 
That  she  may  have  naught  to  say." 

"  I  like  that  Spanish  pome.  Was  Minguillo  a  nice 
littly  boy  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  Alison,  and  then  her  mind 
began  to  wander  again,  for  it  was  already  the  dinner- 
hour,  and  Richard  had  not  returned. 

The  cook  came  to  find  out  if  she  should  "  wait " 
dinner  or  not  for  Mr.  Hollister,  and  Alison  decided 
not  to  wait. 

"  May  I  get  down  and  play  ?"  asked  Mary,  be- 
tween the  roast  and  the  salad,  having  satisfied  her 
appetite. 

Alison  assented  listlessly,  and  the  child  retired  to 
the  little  library  that  adjoined  the  dining-room,  where 
she  sat  upon  the  floor  and  spread  out  her  possessions 
luxuriously.  She  had  spent  the  morning  with  a 
neighbor  in  the  Plantagenet,  and  had  picked  up 
fragments  of  conversation,  which  she  now  proceeded 
to  construct  into  a  drama  enacted  by  her  dolls.  There 
was  a  black-eyed  and  saucy  man-doll,  an  uncomfort- 
ably plump,  waxen  beauty,  and  a  limp  rag-baby  of 
unwieldy  and  one-sided  proportions.  Mary  murmur- 
ed and  cooed  to  herself,  mingling  instruction  and  ad- 
vice to  the  dolls,  with  speeches  supposed  to  emanate 
from  their  mute,  painted  lips. 

"  You're  Richard,  'cause  I  want  you  to  sit  by 
Ysobel.  Please  hold  her  tightly.  Don't  let  her  head 

357 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

go  flopsy.  You're  just  a  gone  dafty  about  her.  You 
was  always  dandlin'  after  women's  petticoats!" 

These  last,  evidently  quotations,  were  delivered  in 
a  tone  of  intensest  scorn. 

"  You  poor  old  rag-baby,  don't  cly !  That's  what 
all  mans  does.  You  sit  and  think  about  it  a  few 
days,  then  you  play  with  the  fire  your  own  self." 

Mary  became  aware  that  Alison,  between  the  por- 
tieres, regarded  her  with  a  strange,  frightened  stare. 

"  Don't  be  'fraid,"  she  piped.  "  I'm  not  really 
going  to  let  poor  rag-baby  play  with  the  fire,  'cause 
she'd  burn  all  up." 

The  man-doll  supported  on  his  manly  shoulder  the 
unresponsive  flaxen  beauty. 

"  They  are  Ysobel  and  Richard,  and  the  rag-baby 
is  some  other  person.  They  didn't  say." 

"  Who  ?"  asked  Alison,  fiercely,  knowing  too  well 
that  the  little  child's  sensitive-plate  memory  record- 
ed the  morning's  gossip. 

"  The  ladies  where  I  went  visiting.  Alison,  it's 
not  naughty?",  she  pleaded,  with  the  accusation  of 
her  sister's  stony  look  upon  her.  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  naughty." 

"  You're  not  naughty,  darling !"  Alison's  blinding 
tears  of  mortification  mixed  with  the  innocent  tears 
of  the  little  girl.  Mary  had  been  recording  words 
and  praises  with  the  faithfulness  of  a  machine,  but 
now  she  began  to  think. 

"  They  was  not  our  Ysobel  and  Dickie,"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "  Our  Dickie  is  a  great  big  man,  and  a 
*  dafty '  is  a  plitty  flower,  like  a  dandelion.  But 
what  is  a  gone  dafty  ?  I  s'pose  it's  like  the  old  gran'- 
pa  dandelions  with  gray  hairs." 

Alison  choked  back  her  tears  till  she  could  aban- 
358 


A  Repenting  and  a  Temptation 

don  herself  to  the  paroxysm  of  passionate  pain  that 
surged  within  her.  She  put  Mary  to  bed,  with  grave 
caresses,  but  dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  Mary 
was  saddened  by  her  adored  sister's  strange,  different 
manner,  and  felt  herself  crushed  by  the  weight  of 
her  own  wickedness. 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  so  naughty  when  I  named 
the  hollid,  hateful  littly  dollies  Ysobel  and  Richard  ?" 

Mary,  like  older  folk,  expended  vigorously  the  vials 
of  her  wrath  on  the  passive  third  party. 

"  Thev  were  not  our  Ysobel  and  Dickie,  were  they, 
Alison?" 

Alison  kissed  Mary's  trembling  lips  to  silence, 
but  the  persistent  little  question  was  reiterated,  pa- 
thetically. 

"Were  they,  Alison?" 

"  No,  no,  no !"  cried  Alison,  with  vehement  effort, 
and  fled  from  the  room. 

"  The  first  deceit,"  she  said  to  herself,  bitterly, 
"  and  this  is  only  the  beginning !" 

With  the  lights  turned  low  in  the  library,  she  gave 
herself  over  to  realization  of  the  truth.  An  unwel- 
come truth  must  fight  its  way  to  our  sense.  We  cast 
it  out,  but  it  comes  knocking  again  and  again.  It 
glowers  at  the  window,  it  thrusts  its  face  through  the 
door,  its  foot  is  upon  the  threshold  before  we  have 
time  to  close  the  door.  We  shut  our  eyes  to  it,  but 
when  we  open  them,  it  gibbers  at  our  elbow,  it  is  im- 
planted by  our  hearth-stone. 

"  Soiled,  soiled !"  cried  Alison.  "  If  there  were 
but  a  God  to  help  me !  Must  I  keep  this  soiled  thing 
in  my  life  ?" 

She  shivered  the  shiver  of  the  clean  recoiling  from 
dirt. 

359 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

Then  Richard  came  in,  with  the  gravity  of  contri- 
tion on  his  face.  He  saw  Alison,  dimly  white  by  the 
wavering  window,  and  knew  that  she  knew.  He  went 
over  to  her  without  a  word,  and  knelt  by  her,  putting 
his  cheek  against  her  shoulder  in  the  boyish,  simple 
fashion  he  had.  But  she  did  not  turn  her  face  to 
his,  nor  did  she  speak. 

"  Sweetheart,  I  have  wronged  you.  I  have  come 
to  ask  your  forgiveness !" 

He  could  not  go  on,  because  she  was  so  very  quiet. 
He  wanted  her  hand  for  sympathy  and  support.  It 
lay  cold  and  trembling  in  her  lap,  and  would  not 
respond  to  his  touch. 

"  My  God !"  he  exclaimed,  starting  to  his  feet, 
and  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  "  is  that  the  way 
you  feel  ?  I  have  not  wronged  you  as  much  as  you 
think.  I- 

"  Don't  say  any  more,"  she  shuddered.  He  went 
over  and  leaned  his  face  to  hers. 

"Look  at  me!" 

She  raised  her  clear  eyes  to  his.  They  were  cold 
and  remote  as  stars — no  hatred  in  them,  no  scorn, 
only  miles  of  immeasurable  distance. 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  me  ?"  he  said,  with  a  pas- 
sionate quivering  of  the  whole  white  face.  His  brown 
eyes  melted  with  anguish.  Had  he  thrown  her  ir- 
recoverably away? 

Alison  shivered  again.  He  and  Ysobel — he  and 
— perhaps,  yes,  he  and  Sararose!  Soiled,  soiled! 

"  Do  I  believe  in  you  ?    I  cannot  tell — " 

Wounded  love  would  have  scorched  him  with  fer- 
vid accusation,  burned  him  with  tragic  reproach, 
drowned  him  with  torrents  of  tears,  swept  him  away 
with  whirlwinds  of  appeal.  Dead  love  sat  passivelv, 

360 


A  Repenting  and  a  Temptation 

looking  beyond  him,  with  cold  eyes,  into  a  starless 
future. 

This  was  not  Alison,  was  not  any  one  he  had  ever 
known.  It  had  always  been  so  easy  in  Richard's 
life  for  him  to  retrieve  a  fault.  He  was  the  sort  of 
person  we  delight  to  forgive. 

"  My  God !  I  deserve  it !"  he  said,  kneeling  by 
the  other  window,  and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Poor  Alison,  loving  him  no  more,  had  ceased  to 
understand  him.  She  believed  his  self-accusation. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  father's  to-night,"  said  Rich- 
ard, controlling  a  sob.  His  own  emotions  stirred  him 
almost  beyond  control.  "  We  have  to  talk  over  some 
business  matters.  It  will  probably  be  late  before  we 
finish,  so  I  won't  return — home — here — to-night." 

He  waited  a  minute  for  the  marble  statue  to  be- 
come flesh,  to  melt,  for  the  dear  arms  around  his 
neck. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Alison.  It  was  the  cruelest 
thing  she  could  have  said. 

With  a  dry  sob,  which  he  turned  into  a  cough, 
Richard  went  out.  In  a  minute  he  returned  and 
found  her  where  he  had  left  her,  still  standing. 

"  Who — how — did  you  know  ?" 

"  Marv !"    said   Alison,    and   broke   into   terrible 

*/  / 

weeping,  falling  face  downward  on  the  divan. 

Richard  was  consumed  with  grief,  the  deeply  ex- 
perienced emotion  of  an  impulsive  nature  that  pities 
itself.  Self-pity  is  most  tragic  in  demonstration. 
Many  people  turned  to  look  at  him  a  second  and  a 
third  time  as  he  rode  in  the  street-cars,  such  was 
the  wounded  look  of  his  mouth  and  eyes.  The  grief 
that  lasts  a  lifetime  often  does  not  mark  the  face  so. 

When  Enoch  Holme  came  that  evening  to  bid  Mrs. 
361 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

Hollister  good-bye,  he  found  her  calm,  with  the  faint- 
est shadow  of  tears  on  her  eyelids.  Alison  resolved 
to  ask  him  for  help.  He  was  so  unworldly,  so  pure, 
so  strong,  he  would  take  a  higher  standpoint  than 
her  own  or  the  world's. 

They  had  a  long  and  intimate  talk,  speaking  only 
of  general  truths,  of  abstract  right  and  wrong,  with 
the  intensely  personal  event  like  a  veiled  presence 
between  them. 

"  Forever  and  ever,"  said  Alison,  "  must  one  abide 
by  consequences  ?  May  one  not  draw  a  line  through 
the  mistaken  past,  and  turn  to  a  fresh  page  ?  What 
law  is  there,  after  love  is  dead,  that  should  link  two 
lives  together  in  hypocritical  semblance  ?" 

Then  Enoch  realized  that  she  spoke  of  herself,  and 
the  great  temptation  came  to  him.  Swept  away  was 
all  thought  of  right  and  wrong  in  the  high  tide  of 
joy  that  burst  the  flood-gates  of  his  heart. 

"  Is  love  dead  ?"  he  demanded,  with  curious  fierce- 
ness, for  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  life  depended  on 
the  answer. 

Alison  knew  that  he  knew,  and  was  glad.  In  those 
hours  during  which  she  and  the  unwelcome  truth 
had  fought  each  other  she  had  lived  a  lifetime  of 
subterfuge.  She  was  sick  of  subterfuge. 

"  It  is  killed,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  you  are  mine,  mine,  mine !"  exulted 
Enoch's  heart,  but  the  man  himself  was  silent. 

"  Shall  I  live  a  lie  or  set  myself  free  ?"  asked 
Alison,  pitifully  humble,  reaching  out  eloquent  hands 
to  Enoch,  like  one  who  beseeches  a  little,  little  kind- 
ness. 

"  Be  good  to  me,  be  kind  to  me,  save  me !"  the 
hands  pleaded. 

362 


A  Repenting  and  a  Temptation 

If  the  problem  had  come  to  Enoch  in  any  other 
shape,  except  as  a  plea  for  freedom,  from  the  woman 
whose  freedom  would  have  been  his  own  heart's  joy, 
it  is  doubtful  how  he  might  have  answered.  It  was 
the  Temptation  of  the  Mount  to  him.  The  five  min- 
utes of  thought  were  hours  to  them  both. 

"  Does  he  love  you  ?" 

"  I  believe  that  he  does,  in  his  way." 

"  You  want  to  do  right  ?"  said  Enoch,  rising  and 
looking  down  on  her  from  his  great  height.  "  Are 
you  passionate  for  righteousness  or  for  happi- 
ness ?" 

"  I  want  to  do  right,"  said  Alison,  simply  as  a 
child,  "  and  I  don't  know  what  right  is.  All  my 
religion  is  gone  from  under  me.  Love  is  gone !" 

Enoch's  temptation  was  too  imminent  to  give  him 
room  to  think.  There  was  no  thinking  it  out,  no 
balancing  of  sides,  no  argument.  He  himself  had 
joined  their  hands  in  marriage.  Should  he  also — 
Perish  the  thought !  And  yet,  stolen  bread  to  a 
starving  man !  Is  it  in  human  power  to  refuse  ? 
Enoch  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  He  was  speak- 
ing. Alison  had  to  bend  forward  to  listen.  The 
words  were  not  meant  for  her. 

"  To  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day  forward, 
for  better,  for  worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sick- 
ness and  in  health,  to  love,  cherish,  and  to  obey,  till 
death  us  do  part — 

Enoch  stopped  before  the  Beata  Beatrix. 

"  Till  death  us  do  part,"  repeated  Alison,  turning 
and  turning  the  ring  upon  her  finger. 

Again  Enoch  paced  up  and  down. 

"  Whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put 
asunder." 

363 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

The  ceremony  enveloped  Alison  for  the  second 
time. 

"  There  is  no  escaping  from  consequences,  Alison. 
You  may  run  from  them,  but  they  will  follow.  God 
bless  you!" 

He  kissed  her  forehead,  and  took  his  hat  to  go. 

"And  love?" 

"  God  also  may  recreate  love." 

"  I  will  pray  to  Him  to-night,"  said  Alison. 

Thus,  in  his  great  love  for  Alison,  did  Enoch 
crucify  himself  that  night,  and  only  his  own  heart 
knew. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
The    Pyrola    Flowers 

SOME  of  the  Hollisters  were  in  camp  again  that 
summer.  One  day  Alison  got  a  message  from  Mrs. 
Ruddle  at  the  Loon  Lake  Hotel,  and  went  over  there 
in  response  to  her  request. 

"  Shall  we  go  out  for  a  walk  ?"  asked  Ysobel. 
"  The  roses  in  this  wall-paper  are  fairly  screaming 
at  me  to-day." 

They  took  the  lane  behind  the  hotel  that  led  up- 
ward towards  the  hills. 

"  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come,  Alison.  I 
ran  up  here  for  this  one  talk." 

"  I  came  near  sending  you  a  different  answer," 
said  Alison. 

"  You  hated  to  see  me  again,  I  know.  That's  just 
why  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Alison,  you're  doing  Rich- 
ard a  wrong." 

There  had  been  times  when  Ysobel's  directness  was 
refreshing.  To-day  it  jarred. 

"  We  won't  talk  about  that,"  said  Alison,  coldly, 
stooping  to  pick  some  pyrola  blossoms  that  nodded, 
waxen  and  lily  shaped,  under  the  trees. 

"  We  must  talk  about  it,"  said  Ysobel,  sitting 
down  on  a  stump  resolutely.  "  I  know  I'm  not  good 
enough  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  skirt,  but — what 
else  have  I  a  right  to  talk  with  you  about  ?" 

365 


The   Strength    of  the   Hills 

"  Oh,  Ysobel,"  cried  Alison,  "  you're  cruel.  It's 
only  that — that — I  am  making  the  best  of  things 
and  this — this — talk  and  you — put  me  back  to  that 
awful  place  where  I  was,  and  I  shall  have  to  begin 
over  again." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time,  Alison 
smelling  of  the  pyrola  flowers,  as  if  their  cool, 
woodsy  scent  gave  her  strength. 

"  Now  we've  hit  the  Elk  Mountain  trail,  and  we're 
not  by  the  way  of  meeting  the  hotel  guests,"  said  Yso- 
bel. "  Let's  sit  down  here  on  this  flat  stone.  I'm 
not  going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  doing  the  peni- 
tent. I'm  off  for  Constantinople  to-morrow  with  the 
Claverings.  Yes,  people  will  think  it's  young  Clav- 
ering  this  time,  but  I  don't  care.  Alison,  are  you 
and  Richard  happy?" 

"  Ysobel,  how  dare  you  \  You  I"  cried  Alison,  her 
olive  cheek  flushing  crimson ;  but  Ysobel's  great  gray 
eyes  did  not  waver  nor  drop  in  shame. 

"  That's  why  I  dare — 7.  I  believe  I  am  the  only 
one  in  the  world  who  knows  how  Richard  loves  you. 
The  very  devil  possessed  me  last  winter,  Alison.  I'd 
have  played  fast  and  loose  with  the  Angel  Gabriel 
if  he'd  come  down  to  earth,  but  Richard — he  never 
breathed  a  word  of  love  to  me,  not  a  word.  He  was 
a  man.  I  amused  him.  You  know  what  a  man  is, 
or  if  you  don't,  I  do.  I  led  him  on  to  be  indiscreet. 
Why  the  Lord  only  knows — pure  deviltry.  But,  Ali- 
son, as  sure  as  you're  a  pure  and  faithful  wife,  he's 
been  loyal  to  you.  Did  he  never  tell  you  ?" 

"  I  never  let  him,"  said  Alison,  very  low.  Her 
hands  were  so  tightly  shut  that  her  knuckles  shone 
like  ivory.  "  After  the  first  night,  I  made  him  keep 
silence." 

366 


The   Pyrola   Flowers 

"Why?" 

Alison  put  her  head  down  to  the  flowers. 

"  Soiled,  soiled.  I  had  been  dragged  in  the  dust. 
My  ideals  came  home  to  me  with  broken  wings.  Oh, 
it  was  dreadful." 

"  You  have  kept  him  away  from  you  all  this  time," 
Ysobel  continued,  passionately.  "  You  have  held 
your  head  high  and  given  him  cold  finger-tips.  He 
has  gone  down  on  his  knees  to  you  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  He  has  burned  out  his  heart  for  you.  Oh,  how 
you  have  changed." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Alison.  "  It's  what  comes 
to  everybody,  I  fancy,  some  time  or  other,  in  some 
way  or  other." 

"  It  wasn't  meant  to  come  to  you.  You're  the 
sort  of  woman  who's  above  disillusion.  It's  only 
cheap  little  souls  like  mine  that  wither  up.  There's 
an  everlasting  bloom  to  you,  Alison." 

Alison  had  not  given  way  since  the  tempest  of 
tears  when  Richard  left  the  house  after  her  one  an- 
swer "  Mary."  As  Ysobel  said,  she  had  held  her 
head  high  and  gone  about  in  proud  quiet.  Now  Yso- 
bel's  strange  plea,  the  cynical,  inconsistent  tenderness 
of  the  reckless,  child-eyed  woman,  stirred  her  out  of 
her  marble  calm.  She  opened  her  empty  hands  and 
then  flung  them  downward  as  if  in  despair  at  some- 
thing lost. 

"  There,  there,"  soothed  Ysobel,  laughing  her 
beautiful  brook  laugh,  "  you've  not  changed.  You're 
the  same  sweet,  high-hearted  thing,  and  you  do  love 
him,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?    Am  I  not  his  wife  ?" 

"  I  adore  you  both,  so  don't  you  think  I  can  tell  ? 
Ah,  you  don't  know  I  have  seen  you  together.  I've 

367 


The    Strength    of  the    Hills 

passed  you  on  the  Speedway  twice,  and  I  watched 
you  at  the  Casino.  You've  worn  the  look  of  a  shut 
door,  and  he's  been  knocking,  knocking." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  said  Alison.  She  had  said 
before  I  cannot.  "  Ysobel,  I  prayed  to  God,  and  He 
did  not  help  me." 

"  But  you  believe  in  Richard  now.  You  believe 
what  I've  told  you.  Oh,  Alison,  Alison !  I  remem- 
ber so  well  your  wedding-gown." 

"  I  remember  it,  too." 

"  Blood  and  tears.  And  to  think  that  I  was  the 
one  to  sow  them.  But  you  will  believe  and  love  him 
again,  Alison  ?" 

"  Do  you  know,"  Alison  whispered,  drawing 
breath  again  from  the  white  fragrant  flowers,  "  I 
have  not  kissed  him  since  that  night!" 

"  And  you  prayed  to  God !" 

Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone :  "  Hello,  it's 
getting  late,  and  your  man  will  be  waiting  for  you. 
That's  all  I  wanted  to  say.  You  are  an  angel  to 
listen.  Leave  me  here  in  the  woods." 

"  You  won't  return  with  me  ?" 

"  You  don't  mind  going  alone  ?  I  must  keep  away 
from  that  beastly  place  till  the  last  call." 

"  Good-bye,  then,  Ysobel.  I  wish  you  weren't 
going  to  Constantinople." 

"With  the  Claverings?"  Ysobel's  laugh  had  a 
hard,  little  glitter  in  it. 

The  two  women  kissed  each  other,  and  Alison  went 
down  the  trail  alone.  When  she  had  disappeared, 
Ysobel  lighted  a  cigarette  and  thought.  Then  she 
flung  the  half-burned  stump  behind  her  into  the  dry 
leaves  and  duff  and  started  for  the  hotel.  She  pick- 
ed up  the  pyrola  flowers  Alison  had  dropped. 

368 


The   Pyrola   Flowers 

"  How  white  and  sweet-smelling,"  she  said,  aloud. 

Then  she  flung  them,  too,  behind  her  on  the  Elk 
Mountain  trail. 

Where  her  cigarette  had  fallen  the  dry  leaves  be- 
gan to  smoulder  and  burn  in  a  stealthy,  hesitant  fash- 
ion. Little  tongues  of  fire  crept  here  and  there,  and 
were  licked  out  by  the  night  dew. 

2A 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
The  Firebrand 

IT  had  been  a  dry  summer.  For  weeks  no  rain 
had  fallen,  till  the  leaves  on  the  trees  curled  up  and 
were  gray,  the  grass  in  front  yards  was  burned  and 
red,  the  corn-fields  gaped  and  cracked,  and  even  the 
marshes  and  beaver-meadows  were  so  parched  that 
the  little  boys  could  go  barefoot  with  their  blueberry 
pails  and  come  home  with  never  so  much  as  the  sus- 
picion of  water  on  the  soles  of  their  hard  feet.  Elder 
River  flowed  languidly  over  its  hot  stones,  and  the 
torrent  at  Lone  Falls  was  diminished  to  a  single 
woolly  thread  of  foam,  zigzag  between  castellated 
piles  of  rock.  The  trout  could  hardly  find  enough 
water  to  hide  their  shining  sides,  and  the  thirsty 
deer  trampled  knee-deep  in  the  muddy  runways  for 
draughts  of  feverish  water.  Daddy  Holme  said  there 
hadn't  been  no  such  droughty  spell  sence  the  iron- 
mines  shet  daown,  and  he  suspicioned,  when  they 
had  sech  a  power  of  snow  in  the  winter,  there  'ud  be 
quare  goings-on  come  dog-days.  Old  Si  Newcombe  re- 
marked there  hadn't  been  but  one  meaching  sprenkle 
sence  the  late  corn  went  in,  and  'twas  a  living  wonder 
the  crops  come  up  at  all.  Eli  Barhite's  wife  re- 
marked that  the  very  sky  was  s'rinking  and  looked  as 
it  oughter  be  let  out  in  the  seams,  but  'twas  God 

370 


The   Firebrand 

Almighty's  consairn,  not  her'n.  Sararose  wilted 
daily,  practising  her  songs  at  the  new  piano  in  the 
little  white  church  on  the  lonely  hill.  She  bright- 
ened when  the  Loon  Lake  stage  brought  her  frequent 
letters  from  her  Nixie. 

Long  after  Elk  Mountain  folk  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  when  even  the  summer  visitors  had  retired,  a 
bright  snake  of  fire  twisted  along  the  mountain  west- 
ward with  the  gentle  night  wind.  It  seemed  a  liv- 
ing thing,  glowing  and  wriggling  in  the  darkness, 
intent  on  its  predetermined  way.  "When  the  hot 
orange  morning  dawned,  the  air  hung  heavy  with 
smoke,  and  a  sound  like  a  vast  sigh  came  from  the 
distant  hills.  The  mountain  was  on  fire. 

Tall  plumy  pines  and  pointed  firs,  flat-fronded 
hemlocks  and  tasselled  tamaracks,  ancient  beeches 
and  maples,  trees  that  had  stood  for  centuries  in  their 
primal  solitude,  were  transfigured  to  living  gold, 
their  spirits  went  up  ecstatically  in  swirls  of  fire  and 
columns  of  dark  smoke.  All  the  long  moaning  day 
the  forest  gave  itself  over  to  Bacchic  dithyramb.  The 
surprised  sky  looked  down  on  an  under-coping  of 
smoke,  through  which  tree-tops  pierced  like  gigantic 
torches  and  flocks  of  sparks  flew  upward  till  the 
vapor  was  sown  with  scarlet  petals.  Rivers  of  flame 
plunged  through  the  upper  air,  fed  by  the  impalpa- 
ble powder  of  dried  vegetation.  Every  twig,  every 
needle,  bore  its  huge  aureole  of  flame,  and  the  great 
trees  burst  like  bomb-shells. 

The  creatures  of  the  underwoods  below  had  lost 
their  radiant  peep-holes  of  sky.  They  were  caught 
beneath  an  impenetrable  ceiling,  and  the  forest  si- 
lence had  given  way  to  a  dreadful  chorus  of  din, 
moans,  and  sighs  of  far-awav  flame,  shouts  of  wind 

371" 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

in  the  pine-tree  tops,  grinding  of  teeth  in  the  under- 
brush. The  little  hunted  creatures  fled  insanely 
from  their  holes  and  burrows.  The  large-eyed  deer 
went  side  by  side  at  a  gallop,  down  the  mountain, 
with  the  yellow  monster  and  his  hot  breath  at  their 
back.  The  wind  had  veered,  and  Elk  Mountain 
threatened  the  village  lying  at  its  foot. 

Sararose  went  that  afternoon  to  the  lonely  white 
church  to  try  some  new  songs  that  Xixie  had  sent 
her.  The  forest  fire  seemed  far  away,  and  its  only 
message  a  monotonous  sigh.  It  mingled  with  the 
music  she  evoked  in  the  coolness  of  the  pine-encircled 
church.  The  light  grew  obscure  till  she  had  to  bend 
over  the  keys  to  find  her  notes,  yet  it  was  hours  be- 
fore sunset.  The  air  suffocated  her  so,  she  sought 
the  door  for  a  moment's  respite.  A  long,  rolling, 
murky  billow  lay  across  the  mountain. 

"  The  fire  has  died  down,"  thought  foolish  little 
Sararose. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  changing  wind  carried  it 
towards  her,  and  the  long,  rolling  billow  was  the 
outrunner  of  the  fire  which  it  screened.  Neverthe- 
less, she  wondered  why  the  air  smelled  like  an  oven 
and  why  the  charred  bits  fell  from  nowhere  on  her 
hand.  Tyke  Loiseau  rumbled  by  in  his  dusty  two- 
wheeled  cart,  with  bags  of  wool,  on  his  way  to  Sar- 
anac.  He  pulled  up  when  he  saw  Sararose.  Her 
wistful  loveliness  in  the  doorway  set  his  heart  to 
beating  in  the  old-time  manner.  He  translated  his 
heart-beats  to  brusque  advice. 

"  Git  in  and  I'll  fetch  you  home,  Sararose.  Tho 
mounting  is  roaring  like  the  deuce,  and  the  smoke 
canting  our  way,  too.  If  the  breeze  tuk  a  notion  to 
blow  up,  we'd  hev  to  fight  fire  all  night,  I  reckon." 

372 


The   Firebrand 

But  the  girl  only  laughed,  and  said  she  wasn't 
afraid  of  a  mountain  fire.  Indeed,  she  had  no  mind 
to  ride  home  in  the  dusty  cart  with  bags  of  wool  un- 
der the  seat,  and  swarthy  Tyke  next  to  her,  making 
love. 

"  Git  in,  Sararose,  do.  I  don't  like  to  leave  you 
here  alone.  The  smoke's  gitting  in  your  pretty  eyes, 
already." 

"  There's  no  smoke  in  my  eyes,"  retorted  she,  with 
unconscious  return  to  Elk  Mountain  repartee.  "  You 
must  have  been  stopping  at  Windy  Flanders's." 

Loiseau,  as  much  of  a  firebrand  as  his  redoubtable 
ancestor,  was  stung  by  Sararose's  indifference.  Her 
year  in  New  York  had  removed  her  outside  his  un- 
derstanding. With  a  half  oath  he  jumped  from  his 
cart. 

"  If  I've  been  stopping  at  Windy  Flanders's,"  he 
cried,  "  you  shall  know  what  druv  me  to  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know.  I'm  practising  songs,  and 
I've  no  more  time." 

"  Practising  songs  that  some  blooming  fool  from 
the  city  sends  to  you.  But  you  shall  know.  It's 
you,  you,  you.  Now  go  back  to  your  songs,  while  the 
hull  mounting  burns,  and  I  burn,  burn,  burn.  Songs, 
songs !" 

Loiseau  flung  out  his  whip  and  was  off  again  at  a 
gallop  down  the  steep  hill.  Sararose  went  to  her 
songs,  but  the  air  grew  more  oppressive,  the  light 
more  obscure,  and  fear  clutched  at  her  heart.  Then 
she  heard  the  patter  of  little  hoofs  on  the  road. 
Running  to  the  door,  she  saw  a  young  deer,  that  hesi- 
tated a  moment  in  his  flight.  The  two  startled  young 
creatures  looked  at  each  other.  Sararose  remember- 
ed old  Si's  story  of  the  great  fire  of  '79,  when  the 

373 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

deer  ran  from  the  wood  and  even  into  the  houses  for 
shelter.  She  looked  towards  the  mountain.  The 
rolling  murky  billow  was  ominously  nearer  than 
when  she  had  entered  the  church.  With  a  faint  cry, 
hatless  as  she  was,  she  fled  down  the  long,  lonely  hill 
towards  the  white  roofs  of  the  village.  Her  coin- 
bright  hair  shook  and  glistened  as  she  ran. 

Tyke  Loiseau,  waiting  at  the  cross-roads  out  of 
sight  behind  the  elder-bushes,  saw  the  glister  and 
heard  the  trippeting  of  her  light  feet. 

"  She  is  safe,"  he  thought,  and  went  on  his 
way. 

Back  by  the  church  the  air  was  so  hot  that  it  lay 
in  glassy  sheets  and  danced.  A  drunken  swirl  of 
flame  staggered  through  the  veil  of  dun,  swept  a 
semicircle  of  a  thousand  yards,  and  lighted  a  pine- 
tree  in  the  burying-ground  behind  the  church.  The 
tree  burst  into  flame  like  gunpowder,  and  the  little 
deer,  panic-stricken,  ran  within  the  door. 

On  the  ridge  behind  the  village,  the  ridge  where 
Enoch  and  Alison  had  driven  in  the  washed  moon- 
light, where  Richard  and  Ysobel  had  cantered  at 
misty  sunset,  Tyke  Loiseau,  with  his  bags  of  wool, 
was  hailed  by  Joe  Hartle,  returning  from  a  day's 
work  with  his  carnivorous-looking  reaping-machine. 

"  Hello,  Tyke,"  called  Joe,  standing,  long  and 
yellow,  on  a  bar  of  his  reaper,  and  looking  like  a 
grim  conception  of  revenge ;  "  the  woods  behind  the 
burying-ground  is  on  fire." 

"  The  hull  village  will  ketch  if  the  wind  blows  up," 
said  Tyke,  with  unmoved  face.  He  brought  his  horse 
alongside  of  the  revengeful  machine. 

"  Bet  you  a  dollar  Enoch's  meetm'-house  burns  to 
a  cinder,"  chuckled  Joe,  yellower  than  ever  in  the 

374 


The    Firebrand 

hazy  light  from  the  curtained  sky.  "  And  a  damned 
good  thing  it  'ud  be." 

"  The  church !"  exclaimed  Loiseau,  as  a  distant 
crash  came  to  his  ears.  He  thought  of  the  hatless 
figure  flying  down  the  hill  and  the  beloved  song- 
book  abandoned  on  the  piano.  Sararose's  songs,  the 
church  in  peril,  his  own  sneer !  A  rough  idea  of  ex- 
piation framed  itself  and  troubled  his  chest  like  a 
weight. 

"  By  jingo,  I  forgot  something."  Loiseau  was  in 
too  much  of  a  hurry  for  plausibility.  "  Joe,  take 
these  reins ;  Patsy  will  follow.  She's  awful  scart  at 
fire.  I'm  going  back  to  the  cross-roads.  No,  don't 
wait  for  me.  I'll  meet  you  to  Eddie's.  So  long." 

"  If  he  don't  beat  the  devil  for  quickness,"  solil- 
oquized Hartle,  pursuing  his  way  with  the  wicked 
machine,  and  Patsy  meekly  following.  "  What's  got 
into  his  head,  anyhow  ?  Regular  firebrand !" 

Then  a  smile  creased  Hartle's  leathery  face  at  the 
prospect  of  Enoch's  church  in  ashes. 

The  building  was  in  flames  when  Loiseau  reached 
it,  but  he  was  nothing  daunted.  He  stumbled  down 
the  aisle  through  the  dense  smoke  that  already  filled 

o  </ 

the  room.  The  window  behind  the  piano  glared  like 
the  mouth  of  a  red-hot  furnace.  The  piano,  over 
which  he  passed  his  fingers,  scorched  him  like  a  stove 
cover,  and  was  wrinkled  and  blistered  to  the  touch. 
Xow  he  had  his  hand  upon  the  music.  As  he  rolled 
it  tight  between  his  aching  palms  a  whip  of  flame 
from  a  hemlock  branch  through  the  open  window 
reached  in  and  lashed  him  across  the  shoulders. 
With  this  fiery  stroke  searing  his  breast  and  the 
sting  of  burning  wood  in  his  eyes,  he  fell  for- 
ward over  a  warm,  furry  bodv  that  lay  beneath 

375 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

the  pulpit.  He  felt  the  cold  nose  of  a  little  deer 
pressed  against  his  cheek,  and  for  a  minute  two 
pleading,  great  eyes,  an  inch  away,  looked  straight 
into  his  own. 

As  Loiseau  raised  himself  in  desperation  he  yet 
took  brief  compassion  for  the  animal.  He  laid  hold 
of  a  soft  ear. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  cried,  with  a  whistle,  but  the 
timid  creature  lay  still,  beating  away  its  life  in  mor- 
tal suspense. 

Loiseau  staggered  to  the  door,  and  as  the  flames  of 
his  clothing  leaped  to  his  eyebrows,  the  insanity  of 
burning  people  seized  him.  He  could  see  nothing 
but  the  brook,  Crooked  Brook  in  the  hollows  of  the 
hill  and  its  cool  puddles,  with  smooth,  healing  mud. 
Like  one  pursued  by  demons,  towards  the  brook  he 
flew,  his  hands  in  their  frantic  clasp  to  his  breast  of 
Sararose's  music  -  roll.  The  wind  of  his  progress 
fanned  the  cruel  flames  that  enveloped  him.  The 
cruel  wind,  the  cruel  length  of  the  long  hill,  the  tor- 
tured eyes  that  saw  not ! 

The  pain  of  those  minutes  was  so  intense  that  it 
wiped  out  self-consciousness,  blotted  all  his  senses. 
The  physical  man  died  in  very  ecstasy  of  agony,  and 
only  the  spiritual  man  remained,  exulting,  swept  in 
a  whirlwind  from  heaven.  His  feet  seemed  borne  on 
wings  of  fire,  crimson  hands  drew  him  unutterably, 
loud  voices  snouted  in  his  ear,  Forgiven.  Forgiven, 
that  was  the  clear  white  star  that  shot  delicious  rays 
through  the  chaos  of  his  delirium.  The  clear  white 
star  was  a  girl's  white  face,  rayed  with  copper-gold 
hair.  It  dawned  before  him,  beckoning,  now  here, 
now  there,  above,  below,  always  white,  starlike, 
steady,  in  the  shimmering  red-hotness.  How  strange 

376 


The   Firebrand 

it  is  that  they  who  have  most  to  forgive  yearn  hardest 
to  be  forgiven. 

The  instinct  of  the  feet  led  him  unerringly  to  the 
village.  He  passed  swiftly,  clad  in  flame.  He  did 
not  know  that  he  shouted  aloud ;  he  did  not  know  that 
he  suffered.  He  followed  the  clear  white  star,  but 
the  voice  of  the  flesh  shouted  and  cried: 

"  I  burn,  burn,  burn  !" 

Women  rushed  to  doors  and  windows  and  fell 
back  in  horror.  Little  children  were  dragged  away 
from  the  savage  cry.  Its  like  had  never  before  been 
heard  in  Elk  Mountain.  It  was  a  cry  that  chilled 
to  the  marrow,  not  human,  the  cry  of  flesh  riven  from 
spirit.  Even  Sararose,  sitting  with  Daddy  in  her 
kitchen,  heard  the  throb  of  it.  It  went  hot  and 
cold  along  her  spine  and  sent  a  giddiness  to  her  tem- 
ples. 

"  I  burn,  burn,  burn !" 

Through  the  village  street,  in  the  pale  brown  twi- 
light, the  Firebrand  tore,  a  living  man  on  fire  from 
head  to  foot.  The  "  setters  "  at  Eddie's,  roused  to 
awful  energy,  formed  a  cordon  to  stop  him. 

After  the  blankets  were  unrolled  from  his  pitiful 
form,  a  charred  roll  of  paper  was  found  tightly 
clutched  in  the  immovable,  blackened  fingers.  A  sin- 
gle bar  of  music  could  be  deciphered,  mysteriously 
engraved,  black  on  black,  in  its  innermost  recesses. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
Fight  Fire! 

ENOCH,  in  his  buckboard,  galloped  from  house  to 
house,  with  the  ringing  cry,  "  Fight  fire !"  and  the 
children  cried  in  the  darkened  houses. 

"  Fight  fire !  Fight  fire !"  It  was  carried  through- 
out the  township,  ominous  as  a  call  to  arms  at  mid- 
night. In  an  hour  every  man  and  boy  had  respond- 
ed to  the  call,  and  with  hoes,  shovels,  and  spades  the 
light  infantry  were  at  work,  while  the  teams  and 
ploughs,  like  heavy  artillery,  started  the  trenches  and 
furrows  that  were  to  intercept  the  enemy.  Of  water 
there  was  a  pitiful  scarcity.  Enoch  was  the  general 
that  marshalled  his  forces  and  divided  them  over  the 
fields.  With  huge  brooms  of  brush  and  twigs  the 
surface  fires  were  beaten  down,  and  squads  of  men 
heaped  spadefuls  of  fresh  earth,  like  redoubts,  to 
keep  back  the  ever-advancing  tide  of  flame. 

Trenches  were  dug  to  intercept  the  underground 
fires  that  follow  the  roots  of  trees,  to  spring  up  some- 
times a  field's  length  from  their  source.  All  in  the 
semidarkness  and  pungent  smoke  men  drove  their 
ploughshares  in  deep  furrows  through  the  furze  and 
dry  grass  of  upland  pastures,  while  the  hot  south 
wind  fanned  the  flames  to  fury,  and  spread  yellow 
clouds,  like  a  copper  bowl,  between  them  and  the 
sky. 

378 


Fight   Fire! 


The  men  worked  wordlessly,  and  like  demons,  dig- 
ging, spading,  ploughing,  beating,  while  now  and 
again  through  the  horrid  twilight  rang  out  Enoch's 
voice  in  brief  command. 

"  Boys,  we  shall  have  to  back-fire !"  he  shouted. 
"  All  the  timber  between  us  and  the  village  must 
be  burned!" 

A  squad  of  men  were  set  on  guard  to  control  the 
back-fires.  This  was  the  last  measure  of  safety. 

The  deer  rushed  out  of  the  forests  in  herds,  and, 
with  the  frightened  cattle,  sought  refuge  in  the  pools 
of  the  river,  hurried  through  the  village  streets,  or 
made  their  way  in  confusion  to  the  shores  of  Lake 
Miquewauga. 

Eli  Barhite  and  Gene  Lawless  worked  side  by  sido 
in  a  line  of  men,  spading  a  trench  through  the  golden- 
rods  below  Lost  Inn.  The  yellow  of  the  flowers  was 
almost  black  in  the  obscure  light,  and  an  occasional 
lurid  flash  cut  like  lightning  across  the  overhanging 
sky,  as  the  wind  carried  the  flames  in  long  swirls. 
Sparks  and  charred  leaves  flew  about  them,  and  the 
air  was  like  a  furnace  to  breathe. 

"  That  you,  Gene  ?"  said  Eli.  "  Come  close !  Be 
my  eyebrows  singed  off  me  ?" 

"  Darned  fool !"  Gene  replied,  affably,  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  lip  with  a  blackened  palm.  "  If  I 
were  hombly  as  the  old  Harry,  I  wouldn't  consider 
my  eyebrows  at  sech  a  time." 

The  weird  cries  of  the  flying  birds  mingled  with 
the  sough  of  consuming  trees. 

Down  at  Camp  Hollister,  miles  away  from  the 
flames  and  confusion,  the  dark  and  smoke  oppressed 
like  the  day  of  doom.  The  servants  were  saying  their 
beads  as  fast  as  they  could  chatter.  Mrs.  John  Hollis- 

379 


The   Strength   of  the    Hills 

ter  sailed  about  with  subterranean  oracular  wisdom, 
and  little  Mary  was  subdued  many  minutes  to  large- 
eyed  silence. 

"  This  is  the  end  of  evlything,"  she  was  heard  to 
say  to  the  rag-baby,  tightly  clasped  in  her  arms. 
"  God  is  coming  down  plitty  soon  to  take  us  all 
home.  Don't  be  afraid,  dolly.  It's  like  waiting  at 
Clistmas  dinner.  It  takes  an  awful  long  time  to  get 
all  way  round,  but  He  won't  forget,  dolly." 

Mary  was  terribly  afraid,  but  she  did  not  want 
Alison  nor  dolly  to  know  it. 

"  I'm  going  up  to  help  the  village  people,"  said 
Eichard  to  Alison.  They  stood  together  on  the  grass 
before  the  house,  in  the  tawny  twilight  of  mid-after- 
noon. 

"  Kiss  me  good-bye,"  and  Alison  lifted  her  Ma- 
donna face  to  his.  She  took  his  determination  to  go 
for  granted,  making  no  fuss,  as  his  mother  had  done. 

As  her  arms  went  round  his  neck,  Richard  knew 
that  he  was  at  last  forgiven. 

"  Sweetheart !"  he  said,  in  the  old,  happy,  boyish 
way.  He  was  as  happy  that  minute  as  if  there  had 
never  come  an  estrangement  between  them. 

His  own  sins  did  not  trouble  him,  except  as 
they  troubled  others.  The  shadow  was  lifted  from 
Alison's  eyelids.  Richard  began  living  and  loving 
anew. 

The  air  was  full  of  a  vast,  distant  roar,  the  under- 
tone of  fire.  Richard  laughed  for  pure  light-hearted- 
ness. 

"  Fm — I'm — I'm — "  he  stammered,  in  boyish  ex- 
cuse. "  Alison,  you're  divine  in  that  corn-colored 
frock !"  He  touched  the  lace  at  her  wrists.  "  You 
remind  me,  somehow,  of  the  little  Spanish  ballad." 

380 


Fight   Fire! 


"  '  Since  for  kissing  thee,  Minguillo,'  "  quoted 
Alison. 

"  '  Let  me  have  it  quickly,  darling !'  ' '  Richard 
took  up  the  lines  gayly.  "  '  Give  me  back  my  kiss,  I 
pray.' ' 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  once  more,  and  then 
strode  away  through  the  trees  into  the  befogged  dis- 
tance. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  the  fire  when  Enoch  and 
Hollister  found  themselves  side  by  side  for  the  first 
time  since  Enoch  had  called  him  a  liar.  Neither 
man  thought  of  that  time,  as  they  put  all  their 
strength  to  whipping  out  a  tongue  of  underbrush  on 
fire.  Nothing  was  heard  but  the  crackling  of  the 
flames  and  the  flails  of  the  men  beating  out  the  > 
fiery  harvest. 

"  It  would  do  for  Dore's  Inferno"  thought  Rich- 
ard, pausing  for  a  moment  to  rest  his  weary  arms. 

The  men  were  like  black  images  on  a  fiery  back- 
ground, all  in  the  sculpturesque  attitudes  of  a  furious 
winnowing.  When  night  came  on,  scarcely  distin- 
guishable, the  fire  in  places  was  under  control  or  ex- 
tinguished. 

"  But  till  the  last  spark  is  gone,"  said  Enoch  to 
Richard,  "  there  is  danger.  It  will  sometimes  linger 
for  days  in  the  duff  of  the  underwoods,  to  break  out 
without  warning,  or  eat  its  way  underground  when 
we  think  it  is  conquered." 

The  two  men  stood  together  on  a  hill-side  above 
the  village.  In  the  flashes  of  the  conflagration  on 
Cape  Mountain,  Enoch's  face,  that  was  gray  as  ashes, 
shone  like  bronze. 

"  See,  on  Elk  Mountain,  the  fire  has  died  down. 
The  men  in  the  next  township  are  fighting,  too." 

381 


The    Strength   of  the    Hills 

"Shall  we  subdue  it?" 

"  The  Elder  River  and  the  back-fires  have  saved 
us  on  the  east.  If  the  wind  had  been  stronger  the 
fire  would  have  jumped  the  river.  The  waste  lands 
will  be  easy  to  manage  Crooked  Brook  way.  They 
have  been  burned  already  by  fallow  fires  in  the 
spring,  and  Gene  Lawless  has  gone  there  with  a 
crew." 

"  Look !"  cried  Richard.  "  It's  creeping  to  west- 
ward. I  believe  the  wind  has  veered  again." 

"  We  shall  have  to  fight  all  night,"  was  Enoch's 
answer,  as  he  saw  that  Richard's  observation  was 
true. 

Enoch  sent  his  men  home  by  relays  to  rest  and 
relieve  each  other  in  turn.  All  night  tired  men  slept 
by  snatches,  with  their  grimy  clothes  still  on,  and 
deep,  gray  channels  of  perspiration  streaking  their 
soot  -  colored  faces.  Anxious  women  sat  at  their 
windows  in  the  sickly  glow  of  that  terrible  night, 
while  the  working  relays  of  tired  men  patrolled  the 
outskirts  of  the  conflagration.  Thirty  miles  away, 
summer  visitors  on  the  Fulton  lakes  were  strung  out 
in  boats,  like  a  regatta,  watching  the  splendid  spec- 
tacle of  the  burning  hills.  At  midnight  a  gentle 
rain  began  to  fall. 

"  What  a  pity !"  sighed  the  summer  regatta  on 
the  Fulton  chain. 

But  it  did  not  rain  on  Elk  Mountain,  for  the  in- 
tense heat  caught  the  rain  in  upper  air  and  distilled 
it  to  steam  far  above  the  tree-tops. 

At  three  o'clock  Enoch  and  Richard  were  on  patrol 
along  the  Saranac  road,  near  the  little  white  house. 

"  There  is  one  great  pine-tree  on  Hartle's  land," 
said  Enoch.  "  If  the  wind  should  blow  a  gale,  the 

382 


Fight   Fire! 


fire  would  leap  from  the  fringes  of  that  fir-wood  to 
the  tree,  and  the  tree  would  set  the  village  on  fire." 

"  Then  the  tree  must  go  down,"  Richard  respond- 
ed. The  flare  from  Cape  Mountain  illumined  his 
face. 

"  Most  of  the  boys  have  turned  in.  You  know 
these  great  fires  last  for  days  with  us,  and  the  im- 
mediate danger  seems  averted." 

"  But  the  tree  must  go  down,"  Richard  repeated. 
"  I  can  get  an  axe  here  from  you." 

"  It  would  be  a  half -day's  work  for  you,  Hollister, 
and  with  this  arm — ' 

He  suddenly  remembered  the  ugly  twist  he  had 
given  it,  and  came  out  with  the  thought  impulsively. 

Richard  flushed.  "  It's  as  good  as  yours,  Enoch," 
he  replied,  with  a  laugh.  The  laugh  was  a  little 
forced,  but  the  memory  of  Alison's  corn-colored  frock 
drowned  all  malice. 

"  You're — you're  a  man,  Hollister !"  Enoch  blurt- 
ed out,  with  compunction,  and  even  as  he  spoke  he 
reeled. 

"  The  smoke  in  my  eyes !" 

"  It's  you  that  need  to  save  yourself !"  cried  Rich- 
ard, supporting  him.  "  Why,  man,  you've  been  work- 
ing like  the  deuce  for  twelve  hours.  Go  home  and 
go  to  bed !" 

Enoch  wiped  the  cold  drops  from  his  forehead. 

"  There'll  have  to  be  a  crew  of  you  at  the  big 
pine-tree,"  he  said.  "  A  sawyer  and  two  choppers, 
or  you'll  make  no  headway.  I'll  send  up  Ab  and 
Azzy.  I  must  patrol  this  road  from  end  to  end." 

"  I'm  off,  then.    Let  them  follow." 

"  You  see  the  pine,  black  there  against  the  red 
sky?" 

383 


The   Strength   of  the  Hills 

Richard  fell  to  whistling  as,  the  axe  over  his 
shoulder,  he  flung  off  up  the  hill-side  in  the  lurid 
night. 

Sararose  awoke  to  feel  her  brother  bending  above 
her. 

Far  up  on  the  Hartle  hill-side  the  three  men  were 
swinging  at  the  great  tree.  The  rising  wind  blew 
from  Cape  Mountain  the  blinding  smoke  in  their 
face.  So  thick  was  the  curtain  that  the  fire  behind 
it  barely  shot  through.  Once  in  a  while  a  great  sheet 
of  light  burst  upward  to  the  sky,  as  some  dead  tree 
yielded  itself  like  gunpowder  to  the  flames.  The  roar 
was  such  that  Richard  and  Azzy,  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  pine,  could  not  hear  each  other's  voices. 

"  It's  gaining  on  us,  boys !"  shouted  Ab. 

"  If  it  sets  that  alder-swamp  a-fire,  it'll  be  on  us 
in  less  than  no  time !"  shouted  back  Azzy. 

They  had  gashed  the  tree  deeply,  but  not  yet  cut 
to  the  middle,  nor  had  it  begun  to  sway  on  its  base. 
Distant  as  they  were  from  the  fir-wood,  the  heat  and 
smoke  were  almost  unendurable. 

"  Run  down  to  the  village,  Azzy,  and  warn  the 
boys  out.  We  must  have  some  whippers-out  up  here, 
or — for  the  Lord's  sake,  run,  Azzy !" 

Richard  and  Ab  were  left  alone,  their  alternate 
strokes  punctuating  dully  the  continuous,  tumultu- 
ous roar.  Above  them  on  Cape  Mountain  the  cruel 
fire  leaped  from  tree-top  to  tree-top  with  inconceiv- 
able greed. 

"  Out  of  the  way !"  called  Ab,  savagely,  as  he  felt 
the  tree  vibrate  to  the  last  stroke  of  his  axe.  The 
great  shiver  that  precedes  the  fall  shook  it  from  top 
to  butt.  He  sprang  backward  down  the  hill-side,  un- 
seeing and  unseen  in  the  thick  smoke  that  poured  as 

384 


Fight   Fire! 


from  the  mouth  of  a  furnace.  Richard,  strong  arm 
and  clear  eye,  was  not  woodsman  enough  to  keep 
clear-headed  at  this  last  moment.  He  saw  nothing 
about  him  but  the  lurid  curtain,  and  he  ran,  only 
to  be  knocked  senseless  by  the  huge  tree's  bole.  He 
was  tangled  beneath  the  branches.  Ab  went  on  down 
the  hill,  little  imagining  that  Richard  did  not  fol- 
low, in  the  darkness. 

There  Richard  Hollister  lay,  with  the  mark  on 
his  temple  of  the  tree's  jagged  blow,  an  occasional 
flash  from  the  burning  woods  lighting  his  quiet,  hand- 
some face.  "  Out  of  the  way !"  were  the  last  words 
on  earth  that  he  heard,  but  the  last  vision  before  his 
eyes  was  the  Madonna  face  and  the  adorable  corn- 
colored  frock  that  reminded  him  of  the  Spanish 
ballad. 
2s 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

Thy  Gardens   and  thy  Gallant  Walks 

SABAEOSE'S  imagination  was  haunted  all  that  night 
by  the  naming  phantom  of  her  dead  lover.  Her  feel- 
ings were  always  more  awake  by  night  than  by 
day.  Even  her  conscience,  an  easy  mistress  in  sun- 
shine, troubled  her  during  the  night-watches,  and  tor- 
menting memories  that  left  her  waking  hours  alone 
would  visit  her  dreams.  Perhaps  it  was  a  remnant 
of  the  traditions  of  orthodoxy  that  makes  one's  sleep- 
ing hours  seem  full  of  unknown  peril,  and  to  be 
guarded  by  special  prayers.  Sararose  had  often  arisen 
from  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  the  horror 
of  the  unprotected  upon  her,  and  remembered  that 
she  had  forgotten  the  night-spell,  which  she  would 
proceed  hastily  to  mumble : 

"Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep; 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 

But  to-night  this  spell  would  not  avail.  She  saw 
again  the  swarthy,  eager  face,  leaning  above  the  bags 
of  wool,  heard  his  imperious  request  and  her  own 
ligh';,  scoffing  tones  in  answer.  Then  the  darkness  of 

386 


Gardens    and    Gallant    Walks 

her  room  reeled  with  the  fierceness  of  his  last  words, 
"  I  burn,  burn,  burn !"  She  put  her  hands  upon  her 
eyes,  or  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow,  but  she  could 
not  shut  away  the  image  of  that  thing  of  fire.  Then 
she  would  begin  all  over  again  with  the  meeting  in  the 
church  door.  She  followed  him  down  the  road  in 
his  fiery  quest  for  home.  She  called  to  him,  implored 
him  to  stop,  to  put  out  the  flames  by  rolling  over  and 
over,  still  he  flew,  a  thing  of  fire,  and  she  followed 
after,  calling  to  him  that  she  was  sorry,  to  turn  and 
listen,  listen !  "  I  am  sorry,  sorry !"  In  Sararose's 
brief  calendar  of  trouble  the  blackest  days  had  yield- 
ed to  that  simple  formula,  "  I  am  sorry."  For  her 
blackest  days  had  been  shadowed  by  Enoch's  dis- 
pleasure. Her  own  nature  was  not  tenacious  of  grief 
or  accusation. 

But  there  was  no  one  to  hear  her  confession.  She 
was  almost  angry  with  the  sullen  silence,  till  dull 
reality  broke  through  the  roof  of  her  persistent  im- 
agining. She  remembered  that  Loiseau  lay  forever 
mute  in  his  mother's  house  on  the  windy  ridge.  For 
one  thing  she  was  passionately  thankful :  that  it  was 
not  she  who  had  driven  him  to  wilful  suicide.  This 
was  the  first  thought  that  had  come  to  her,  and  it 
seemed  then  that  he  had  chosen  the  most  exquisite 
revenge.  But  Eli  Barhite  had  brought  her  the 
charred  bit  of  paper,  carefully  enclosed  in  a  match- 
box. 

"  I  kinder  thought  you  might  take  a  notion  to 
keep  it,  seeing  he  done  it  for  you,"  Eli  had  explained, 
in  his  gentle,  awkward  way. 

He  did  not  know  about  Nixie,  and  he  feared  that 
tender  Sararose  would  be  heart-broken.  He  passed  the 
back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  muttered  something 

387 


The    Strength   of  the   Hills 

about  a  durned  shame,  and  shambled  out  in  silence. 
The  very  droop  of  his  homespun  coat,  and  the  bend 
of  his  knock-kneed  trousers,  had  bespoken  sympathy. 
Sararose  grew  misty  in  response  to  his  pity  for  her. 

Sleep  came  to  her  but  once  during  the  night,  a 
brief,  feverish  confusion,  from  which  the  old,  awful 
cry  awaked  her.  Once  again,  and  for  the  last  time, 
she  rebuilt  the  fateful  afternoon.  How  kind  she 
was  to  him.  She  smiled  and  gave  him  her  hand — her 
slender  hand  in  his  hot,  hard  grasp — and  she  did 
not  shudder  nor  draw  back  at  all.  Now  it  was  day- 
light, the  sun,  an  orange  ball,  hung  in  the  brownish 
sky,  and  as  she  dressed  herself  she  saw  out  of  her 
windows  the  heavy  pall  of  smoke  where  Cape  Moun- 
tain had  been  wont  to  greet  her  with  its  rosy,  shin- 
ing tops. 

Sararose  was  consumed  with  melancholy  over  the 
tragedy  of  which  she  was  heroine.  She  was  moved 
by  a  profound  pity  for  herself.  She  went  about  the 
house  in  mechanical  fulfilment  of  the  morning  duties. 
She  hoped  her  brothers  would  soon  return,  for  break- 
fast was  ready,  and  the  loneliness  of  the  house  was 
frightful.  The  dejected  little  canary-bird  refused  to 
utter  a  note,  and  Daddy  still  slept. 

When  she  could  endure  the  silence  no  longer  she 
went  to  the  piano.  Music  comforted  her  by  its  har- 
mony with  moods.  Her  listless  fingers  turned  the 
leaves  of  the  hymn-book,  till  she  came  to  the  heading, 
"  Resurrection  and  Everlasting  Life."  Here  were 
wistful,  melancholy  airs,  yet  some  with  a  strange 
note  of  triumph,  a  wild  trumpet-cry,  thrilling  the 
minor  plaint  of  consolation. 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  Jerusalem !" 

388 


Gardens    and    Gallant   Walks 

Her  plaintive,  girlish  soprano  floated  through  the 
open  window: 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  Jerusalem ! 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end, 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see?" 

She  did  not  know  that  at  that  moment  her  four 
brothers,  carrying  a  solemn  burden,  went  slowly  by 
the  house.  They  paused  a  moment  to  listen : 

"  Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles 
With  carbuncles  do  shine; 
Thy  very  streets  are  paved  with  gold 
Exceeding  clear  and  fine." 

To  those  who  watch,  the  face  of  the  dead  seems 
sometimes  crossed  by  shifting  lights,  more  subtle  far 
than  the  lights  of  a  living  countenance.  Richard  Hoi- 
lister,  stirless  and  white  upon  their  arms,  seemed  to 
speak  with  a  motionless,  inner  smile,  swift  as  pale 
summer  lightning.  Did  the  splendid  heaven  of  the 
old  Latin  poet  please  his  fancy,  or  had  he  learned 
better  ? 

"  Thy  gardens  and  thy  gallant,  walks 

Continually  are  green; 

There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers, 
As  nowhere  else  are  seen." 

Sararose's  voice  was  intolerably  tender.  A  tear 
dropped  from  Azzy's  large  blue  eyes  on  Richard's 
unknowing  face.  Enoch's  long,  strange  mouth 

S89 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

took  on  an  expression  of    almost   unearthly  stern- 
ness. 

"  Quite  through  the  streets  with  silver  sound 
The  flood  of  life  doth  flow—" 

The  infinitely  sorrowful  sweetness  of  the  singing 
voice  expressed  a  youthful  joy  to  be  sad.  It  follow- 
ed them  down  the  road: 

"  Quite  through  the  streets  with  silver  sound 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow, 
Upon  whose  banks  on  every  side 
The  wood  of  life  doth  grow." 

As  they  left  the  high-road  with  their  burden,  and 
turned  between  the  odorous  pines  of  the  camp-trail, 
it  mingled  faintly  with  the  breath  of  wind  in  the 
upper  branches: 

"  Upon  whose  banks  on  every  side 
The  wood  of  life  doth  grow." 


CHAPTER  XL 
The   Naked   Soul 

BETWEEN  midnight  and  morning  Mary  sat  bolt 
upright  in  her  little  bed  beside  Mrs.  John  Hollis- 
ter's. 

"  I  think  I  hear  God  calling  some  one,  calling, 
calling,  calling,"  said  Mary. 

The  sighing  of  distant  forests  in  flame  was  the 
only  noise.  The  sky  out  of  their  window  showed  pale 
streamers,  like  a  great  city  in  the  distance.  Mary 
clasped  her  white-gowned  knees  and  listened,  despite 
Mrs.  John's  drowsy  admonitions. 

"  Does  God  take  persons  in  their  evly-day  clothes, 
or  will  he  wait  just  a  littly  bit  while  they  gets  all 
dressed  up  ?" 

"  God  doesn't  take  our  bodies ;  only  our  souls, 
dear." 

"  Does  the  souls  have  to  go  all  naked  ?"  asked 
Mary,  aghast.  "  I'm  not  zackly  sure  what  is  my 
soul,  Aunty.  I  did  never  see  it.  Is  it  what  comes  up 
in  my  froat  when  I've  been  naughty?" 

Mrs.  John  was  half  asleep  again,  so  Mary  was  left 
by  herself  to  ponder  eternal  things.  As  her  wont 
was,  she  satisfied  herself  with  a  search  for  causes. 

"  I  s'pose  bodies  is  such  a  bovver,  getting  tired  and 
hungly  and  their  feet  all  stained,  so  he  just  takes 
souls.  Souls  is  nice  and  clean." 

391 


The   Strength    of  the    Hills 

With  this  bit  of  reasoning,  Mary  went  to  sleep 
again. 

Some  hours  later  she  awoke  to  find  herself  alone 
in  the  room.  She  called  Aunty,  she  called  Alison, 
she  called  Hannah,  but  no  one  answered.  She  put 
on  her  little  red  shoes  and,  standing  on  tip-toe  at  the 
dressing-table,  brushed  daintily  at  her  pretty  light- 
brown  hair. 

"  Flaps  God  has  tooken  all  the  others  and  forgat 
me,"  she  said.  "  He  will  not  be  angly  'cause  littly 
gells  come  in  their  nightie." 

She  went  slowly  down  the  stairs  in  her  night- 
gown and  little  unbuttoned  red  shoes,  talking 
softly  to  herself.  A  strange  sobbing  sound  came 
to  her  from  below.  Across  the  banisters  she 
could  see  the  dining  -  room,  with  the  chairs 
empty  and  the  breakfast  untouched  on  the  table. 
Then  around  the  corner  of  the  stairs  she  came 
upon  that  stricken  group  in  the  alcove  of  the  large 
hall. 

"  Oh,  dear,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  trembled  Mary. 

Mr.  Hollister  had  his  arm  around  his  wife,  who 
was  sobbing  aloud.  His  own  face  was  drawn  to  piti- 
ful lines. 

"  Look  at  the  poor  child,"  whispered  Mrs.  John, 
moved  anew  to  grief. 

The  little  girl  stood  still,  her  lips  quivering. 

"Where  is  Alison?     Where  is  Dickie?" 

"  Dickie,  my  dear  child —  But  the  Colonel 
broke  down  and  could  say  no  more. 

"  Dickie,  Dickie,"  called  Mary,  with  a  child's  in- 
stant comprehension,  "  I  want  my  Dickie." 

"  Hush,  he  cannot  answer  you,"  said  June. 

Alison  was  in  the  next  room  with  the  dead,  and 
392 


The   Naked   Soul 

they  did  not  want  her  to  hear  Mary's  wild,  little 
voice. 

"  Alison  is  in  there  with — him,"  said  June,  crying 
again  and  drawing  the  little  child  to  her. 

"  God  has  taken  him,"  said  the  Colonel,  in  a  husky 
voice. 

The  calling  in  the  night  suddenly  came  to  Mary. 
She  had  forgotten  it  till  now. 

"  I  heard  God  calling  him,"  she  said,  with  a  blithe 
little  laugh.  She  went  to  the  door,  within  which  was 
Alison. 

"  Let  her  go,"  said  some  one.  "  Perhaps  she  will 
he  a  comfort." 

Mary  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her.  She  saw 
the  still  form  on  a  couch  and  her  sister  sitting  on  the 
floor  by  his  side.  Alison's  face  was  almost  as  quiet 
as  the  face  of  the  dead.  The  eloquent  fluttering  fin- 
gers lay  pitifully  tranquil  in  her  lap. 

"  They  said  God  had  taken  him,  but  there  he  is." 

The  quaint  little  figure  in  the  night-gown  and  un- 
.  buttoned  red  shoes  stepped  to  Alison's  side.  Alison's 
hands  did  not  stir.  Mary  was  moved  by  the  still- 
ness to  great  fear. 

"  Why  don't  you  call  him  ?  Is  he  sleeping  ?"  she 
whispered,  with  her  lips  at  Alison's  ear. 

Alison  turned  her  dry  eyes  to  Mary. 

"  Yes,  he  is  sleeping." 

Then  the  rest  of  the  night's  memory  came  to  the 
child.  She  sat  down  on  the  floor,  and  her  voice  was 
hushed  to  deepest  solemnity,  the  heavenly  gravity  of 
a  little  child. 

"  His  soul  has  gone  up  all  naked,"  she  said,  in 
that  deep,  grave  voice. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  Mary,"  cried  Alison,  bursting 
393 


The   Strength  of  the    Hills 

into  passionate  sobs.  "  If  only  I  could  speak  to  him 
once  more.  Only  once  more.  Richard,  my  Richard !" 

The  long,  lovely  sunny  years  crowded  fast  upon 
her,  scorching  her  cheeks  with  tears. 

"  Don't  cly,  please.  I  think  God  didn't  have  time 
to  get  all  way  round.  He  beginned  with  the  big 
ones,  and  Dickie  is  a  great  big  man,  isn't  he,  Ali- 
son ?  Don't  cly,  please.  I  don't  think  God  has  for- 


gat  us. 


Mary  looked  into  Alison's  face  with  a  dear,  flick- 
ering, brave  smile. 

How  still  Richard  lay  there,  with  the  dignity  of 
death  upon  his  beautiful,  purified  face. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
Hitting   the   Trail 

ENOCH  had  spent  the  night  in  a  woodman's  shanty 
more  than  half-way  up  the  side  of  Mount  Taseco. 
The  great  fire  of  the  previous  summer,  that  had 
made  slash  timber  of  so  many  acres,  had  not  touched 
this  range.  He  had  been  trying  to  find  the  trail  of 
his  dream.  All  the  afternoon  he  had  followed  this 
and  that  wood-road,  abandoned  paths  that  led  no- 
where. Had  he  only  dreamed  it,  after  all,  the  trail 
that  ascended  the  mountain,  the  spring  with  the 
maiden-hair  ferns  leaning  over,  the  great  rock  drip- 
ping moisture,  and  between  two  tamaracks  the  tri- 
angle of  blue  sky? 

While  the  stars  yet  glimmered  in  the  gray,  he 
awoke  and  went  out  to  the  woods.  Only  a  few  steps 
through  the  trees  and  between  the  juniper  bushes 
he  came  upon  a  matted  path  of  needles.  There  was 
the  great  rock.  He  had  hit  the  trail.  Going  nearer, 
he  found  the  spring  shining  like  a  cairngorm,  and,  all 
in  a  feathery  green  rain,  the  tiny  forest  of  maiden- 
hair ferns.  Between  two  twisted  tamaracks  up  the 
hill-side  was  a  triangle  of  sky  with  one  star  winking. 
He  had  hit  the  trail.  He  went  on  gladly.  It  was 
early  June.  The  woods  were  dark,  wet,  sweet- 
smelling.  The  spruce  branches  were  tipped  with 

395 


The   Strength   of  the   Hills 

plumy  gold,  and  the  newly  budded  birches  among  the 
sombre  firs  shone  like  green  flames.  On  each  side  of 
his  path  the  wood-sorrel  spread  a  starry  carpet.  !Xow 
and  again  came  the  aromatic  odor  of  hidden  twin- 
flowers,  more  pungent  for  the  dimness  and  the  dew. 

As  he  neared  the  top  the  air  grew  keener,  and 
banks  of  coarse,  bright  snow  made  ghostly  heaps  un- 
der the  rocks.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  climbed  the 
last  slide  of  stone,  and  stood  on  the  summit.  A  sea 
of  clouds  tossed  around  him,  above  and  below,  white 
as  a  sea  of  snow.  Some  of  those  snowy  tossing  waves 
were  edged  with  fire.  The  wild  heart  of  dawn  has 
never  the  calm  of  sunset. 

"  Who  maketh  the  clouds  His  chariot,  who  walketh 
upon  the  wings  of  the  wind ;  who  maketh  His  angels 
spirits,  His  ministers  a  flaming  fire." 

The  flaming  fire  of  His  feet  ran  along  the  eastern 
horizon,  turned  the  sky  to  one  great  burning  flower. 
The  wind  of  His  wings  pulsated  through  the  under 
sea.  Everywhere  were  shreds  of  cloud  and  fog  and 
mist,  lifted  upward,  upward,  torn  apart,  drifting, 
like  gauzy  petals  scattered  of  the  great  burning  flow- 
er. Mountain-top  after  mountain-top  broke  through 
its  white  sheath,  lighted  sister  fires  to  answer  the 
terrible  sweet  spirit  on  Enoch's  mountain-top.  The 
veiled  valley  lands  began  to  emerge,  and  Lake  Mi- 
quewauga  shone  like  a  rosy  shield  in  vast  swathings 
of  mist.  Purity,  purity,  purity,  sang  the  morning. 

Enoch  spoke  with  great  humbleness : 

"  Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord  ?  He 
that  hath  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart." 


THE    ENT> 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

EASTOVER  COURT  HOUSE 

BY  HENRY    BURNHAM    BOONE 
and   KENNETH    BROWN 

This  is  the  first  of  the  twelve  One-a-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  If  each  of  the  novels  of  American  life  by  American 
authors  which  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  project  for  the 
current  year  proves  as  good  as  '  Eastover  Court  House/ 
the  twelve  volumes  will  constitute  a  decided  addition  to 
American  fiction." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  Its  charm  lies  in  the  constant  succession  of  strongly 
drawn  pictures  of  life.  One  chapter  after  another  presents 
these  scenes,  as  sharply  outlined  and  deep  in  shadows  as 
an  artistic  photograph.  The  book  ...  is  absolutely 
fascinating." — Louisville  Courier- Journal. 

"  Set  in  the  midst  of  the  fox-hunting  and  cross-country 
regions,  there  is  the  hoof-beat  of  the  galloping  hunter  all 
through  the  story,  which  is  full  of  dry  humor  and  vivid 
pen-pictures  of  life." — Horse  Show  Monthly. 

"  The  horse  stories  are  the  best  since  David  Harum  s, 
and  quite  as  laughable  as  his." — Chester  Times. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers 
"  A  good  story  well  told." 
"  Strong  and  absorbing." 
"  Warm  with  life,  with  the  passions  and  emotions  .  . 

of  Virginia." 
"  Wholesome,  true  to  life." 

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HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS 


American  Contemporary  Novels 

THE  SENTIMENTALISTS 

BY  ARTHUR  STANWOOD  PIER 

This  is  the  second  of  the  twelve  One-a-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  A  novelist  who  sets  out  to  depict  a  character  like  Becky 
Sharp  is  likely  to  come  to  grief.  Hence  it  is  surprising  that 
Mr.  Pier  has  not  failed  in  portraying  the  social  exile,  Mrs. 
Kent.  The  novel  is  strong  and  clever." — Pittsburg  Com- 
mercial-Gazette. 

"  It  is  a  very  clever  novel.  There  is  '  story  to  it ;  there 
is  apt  phrasing  and  clear  delineation  of  character ;  there  is 
much  incisive  and  delightful  epigram." — Evening  Sun, 
New  York. 

"  If  the  cleverest  parts  of  this  work  had  been  entirely 
cut  out,  we  should  have  called  it  one  of  the  cleverest  novels 
of  the  season." — Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"  The  book  is  characterized  throughout  by  keen  analysis 
and  a  delightful  sense  of  humor." — Chicago  Tribune. 

Comments  from  various  reviewers 
"  Mrs.  Kent  is  distinctly  American.  ' 
"  As  interesting  and  unique  as  Becky  Sharp." 
"  The  book  will  be  a  success." 
"  A  rattling  good  story." 

"  A  vivid  study  of  contemporary  social  life." 
"  One  of  the  cleverest  novels  of  the  season." 

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American  Contemporary  Novels 


MARTIN    BROOK 

BY  MORGAN    BATES 

This  is  the  third  of  the  twelve  One-o-Month  American  Novels 
to  be  published  during  1901. 

"  It  is  written  in  a  style  unknown  nowadays,  .  .  . 
with  an  impressive  power  revealed  at  each  crisis  of  the 
tale,  which  makes  the  pulses  stir  and  the  eye  glisten.  What 
a  book  for  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century  I" — Julian 
Hawthorne,  in  the  Journal,  New  York. 

"  A  very  striking  book,  and  one  that  I  am  quite  sure  will 
take  an  enviable  place  in  line  with  record-breakers.  It 
is  the  third  of  the '  American  Novel  Series,'  and  is  entitled 
'  Martin  Brook.'  I  finished  it  at  one  sitting,  so  intense 
was  my  interest  in  it." — Buffalo  Commercial,  N.  Y. 

"  The  third  of  the  '  American  Novel  Series,'  '  Martin 
Brook,'  by  Morgan  Bates,  appeals  to  the  best  in  man  and 
woman,  and  is  a  credit  alike  to  author  and  publishers.  .  .  . 
'  Martin  Brook '  is  indeed  an  American  novel,  and  of  the 
best  kind." — Philadelphia  Daily  Evening  Telegraph. 

"  One's  interest  is  caught  and  held  by  the  hero  from  the 

moment  of  his  first  appearance  in  its  pages.     .     .     .     There 

has  not  been  a  stronger  scene  [the  library  scene]  written  to 

revive  the  interest  of  jaded  novel  readers  for  many  a  day." 

— N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  story  is  told  in  a  vigorous  manner.and  is  certainly 
out  of  the  common  run  of  fiction  as  it  is  told  nowadays." 

— New  York  Sun. 
Comments  from  various  reviewers  r 

"  One  of  the  most  refreshing  and  natural  of  novels." 
"  As  good  as  it  is  charming." 
"  A  story  of  depth,  color,  and  action." 
"  It  is  refreshing  to  light  upon  a  story  like  '  Martin 
Brook.'  " 

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UN.VERS.TV  OF  CAUFORNM  L.BRARV 

LOS  Angeles 

„„  Ihe  ,ast  a,tt  Maraptd 


MAR  8 


Form  L9-Series  444 


A     000  051  403     4 


